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THE   WORKS   OF 
WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY 


CORNHILL    EDITION 
VOLUME    XXIII 


Tluirhmn/ 

From  )(  ph<iiiwi-<n>h  taken  in  ISOJ  by  Ernest  Edirardu 


DENIS  DUVAL 


LOVEL  THE  WIDOWER 


THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 


THE  SECOND  FUNERAL  OF 
NAPOLEON 


BY 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY  THE  AUTHOR 
AND  BY  FREDERICK  WALKER 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

1911 


Copyright,  1904,  by 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons 


sip /I 

l^ll 


NOTE 

The  publication  of  Denis  Duval,  the  novel  which 
Thackeray  left  unfinished,  was  begun  after  his  death 
in  the  Cornhill  Magazine  for  March,  1864,  and  contin- 
ued till  June,  when  the  last  chapter  he  had  written  ap- 
peared with  the  "  Notes  "  by  Mr.  Frederick  Green- 
wood, which  are  printed  with  it  in  the  revised  edition, 
and  are  here  retained.  These  notes,  and  the  recollections 
which  Lady  Ritchie  has  given  of  this  last  passage  of  her 
father's  work,  make  needless  any  other  account  of  the 
writing  of  the  story.  Concerning  no  other,  as  will  be 
seen,  have  so  many  details  been  preserved;  the  unusu- 
ally full  note-books,  the  letters  quoted  by  Mr.  Green- 
wood and  others,  the  reminiscences  by  many  friends 
of  the  last  six  months  of  Thackeray's  life,  show  us  al- 
most every  stage  of  the  growth  of  a  novel  in  which  his 
powers  were  again  at  their  best,  but  of  which  the  final 
course  can  only  be  conjectured  in  spite  of  the  clues 
given — to  such  variations  in  execution  were  Thack- 
eray's plans  liable,  by  his  own  admission. 

The  fragment  of  Denis  Duval  first  appeared  in 
book  form  in  1867. 

V 

833214 


LovEL  THE  Widower  began  in  the  Cornlull  Maga- 
zine at  its  foundation  under  Thackeray's  editorship, 
in  January,  1860,  and  ended  in  the  June  number. 
The  story  was  founded  on — was  an  "  amphfication  of," 
as  Mr.  Marzials  perhaps  more  correctly  says — the  play 
of  "  The  Wolves  and  the  Lamb,"  which  Thackeray  had 
written  six  years  before  and  had  vainly  offered  to  at 
least  two  managers.^  Trollope  says  in  his  Life  of 
Thackeray  that  it  had  been  intended  to  begin  the 
magazine  with  a  longer  novel  (presumably  Philip), 
which  was  not  ready  in  time,  and  that  this  shorter  story 
was  substituted;  but  this  is  perhaps  conjecture. 

Lovel  was  republished  by  itself  in  a  small  volume 
at  the  beginning  of  1861. 

"  The  Second  Funeral  of  Napoleon  "  was  written  in 
Paris  in  1840,  and  published  in  1841  in  a  httle  16mo 
volume  with  "  The  Chronicle  of  the  Drum,"—"  by  M. 
A.  Titmarsh." 

The  frontispiece  to  this  volume  is  from  a  photograph 
made  by  Ernest  Edwards  in  1863.  Either  this  or  the 
one  used  as  a  frontispiece  to  the  Roundabout  Papers 
(vol.  xxii)  seems  to  be  the  last  photograph  taken  of 
Thackeray.  The  two  possibly  date  from  the  same  sit- 
ting; the  photographer's  notes  show,  at  all  events,  that 
they  could  not  have  been  far  apart  in  time. 

^  It  was  indeed  after  the  publication  of  LOVEL  that  the  play  was  first  seen 
by  his  friends,  at  an  amateur  performance  by  way  of  housewarming  when  he  took 
possession  of  the  new  house  at  3  Palace  Green. 


CONTENTS 

DENIS   DUVAL 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  The  Family  Tree 3 

II  The  House  of  Saverne 12 

in  The  Travellers 44! 

IV  Out  of  the  Depths 67 

V  I  Hear  the  Sound  of  Bow  Bells 88 

VI  I  Escape  from  a  Great  Danger Ill 

VII  The  Last  of  my  School-days 131 

vin  I  Enter  His  Majesty's  Navy 152 

Notes  on  Denis  Duval 176 


LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

I  The  Bachelor  of  Beak  Street 197 

II    In  which  Miss  Prior  is  Kept  at  the  Door  .     .     .  227 

III  In  which  I  Play  the  Spy 254 

IV  A  Black  Sheep 282 

V  In  WHICH  I  AM  Stung  by  a  Serpent 314 

VI  Cecilia's   Successor 341 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 371 


THE  SECOND  FUNERAL  OF  NAPOLEON 

CHAPTER 

I  On  the  Disinterment  of  Napoleon  at  St.  Helena  449 
II  On  the  Voyage  from  St.  Helena  to  Paris  .  .  .  466 
III  On  the  Funeral  Ceremony 484 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


Thackeeay Frontispiece 

From  a  photograph  taken  in  1863  by  Ernest  Edwarda 


DENIS   DUVAL 


FACING    PAGE 

Little   Denis   Dances   and   Sings   before   the   Navy 

Gentlemen 3 

Last  Moments  of  the  Comte  de  Saverne 64 

Evidence  for  the  Defence 129 

Denis's  Valet 169 


LOVEL  THE   WIDOWER 

I  AM  Referred  to  Cecilia 225 

Bessy's  Spectacles 251 

"  Where  the  Sugar  Goes  " 264? 

Bessy's  Reflections 312 

Bedford  to  the  Rescue 316 

Lovel's   Mothers 362 


DENIS  DUVAL 


Little  Denis  Dances 
and  Sings  before  the 
Navy  Gentlemen 


DENIS  DUVAL 

CHAPTER  I 

THE   FAMILY   TREE 

TO  plague  my  wife,  who  does  not  understand  pleas- 
antries in  the  matter  of  pedigree,  I  once  drew  a 
fine  family  tree  of  my  ancestors,  with  Claude  Duval, 
captain  and  highwayman,  sus.  per  coll.  in  the  reign  of 
Charles  II.,  dangling  from  a  top  branch.  But  this  is 
only  my  joke  with  her  High  Mightiness  my  wife,  and 
his  Serene  Highness  my  son.  None  of  us  Duvals  have 
been  sus  per  collated  to  my  knowledge.  As  a  boy,  I  have 
tasted  a  rope's-end  often  enough,  but  not  round  my 
neck;  and  the  persecutions  endured  by  my  ancestors  in 
France  for  our  Protestant  religion,  which  we  early  re- 
ceived and  steadily  maintained,  did  not  bring  death  upon 
us,  as  upon  many  of  our  faith,  but  only  fines  and  pov- 
erty, and  exile  from  our  native  country.  The  world 
knows  how  the  bigotry  of  Lewis  XIV.  drove  many 
families  out  of  France  into  England,  who  have  become 
trusty  and  loyal  subjects  of  the  British  crown.  Among 
the  thousand  fugitives  were  my  grandfather  and  his 
wife.  They  settled  at  Winchelsea,  in  Sussex,  where 
there  has  been  a  French  church  ever  since  Queen  Bess's 
time  and  the  dreadful  day  of  Saint  Bartholomew. 
Three  miles  off,  at  Rye,  is  another  colony  and  church  of 
our  people:  another  fester  Burg,  where,  under  Britan- 


4  DENIS  DUVAL 

nia's  sheltering  buckler,  we  have  been  free  to  exercise 
our  fathers'  worship,  and  sing  the  songs  of  our  Zion. 

My  grandfather  was  elder  and  precentor  of  the  church 
of  Winchelsea,  the  pastor  being  Monsieur  Denis,  father 
of  Rear- Admiral  Sir  Peter  Denis,  Baronet,  my  kind  and 
best  patron.  He  sailed  with  Anson  in  the  famous  "  Cen- 
turion," and  obtained  his  first  promotion  through  that 
great  seaman :  and  of  course  you  will  all  remember  that 
it  was  Captain  Denis  who  brought  our  good  Queen 
Charlotte  to  England  (7th  September,  1761),  after  a 
stormy  passage  of  nine  days,  from  Stade.  As  a  child  I 
was  taken  to  his  house  in  Great  Ormond  Street,  Queen 
Square,  London,  and  also  to  the  Admiral's  country-seat. 
Valence,  near  Westerham,  in  Kent,  where  Colonel 
Wolfe  lived,  father  of  the  famous  General  James 
Wolfe,  the  glorious  conqueror  of  Quebec/ 

My  father,  who  was  of  a  wandering  disposition,  hap- 
pened to  be  at  Dover  in  the  year  1761,  when  the  Commis- 
sioners passed  through,  who  were  on  their  way  to  sign 
the  treaty  of  Peace,  known  as  the  Peace  of  Paris.  He 
had  parted,  after  some  hot  words,  I  believe,  from  his 
mother,  who  was,  like  himself,  of  a  quick  temper,  and 
he  was  on  the  look-out  for  employment  when  Fate  threw 
these  gentlemen  in  his  way.  Mr.  Duval  spoke  English, 
French,  and  German,  his  parents  being  of  Alsace,  and 

Mr. having  need  of  a  confidential  person  to  attend 

him,  who  was  master  of  the  languages,  my  father  offered 
himself,  and  was  accepted  mainly  through  the  good 
offices  of  Captain  Denis,  our  patron,  whose  ship  was  then 

*  I   remember  a  saying  of  G Aug-st-s   S-lw_n,  Esq.,  regarding  tiie 

General,  which  has  not  been  told,  as  far  as  I  know,  in  the  anecdotes.  A 
Macaroni  guardsman,  speaking  of  Mr.  Wolfe,  asked,  "  Was  he  a  Jew?  Wolfe 
was  a  Jewish  name."  "  Certainly,"  says  Mr.  S-lw-n,  "  Mr.  Wolfe  was  the 
Height  of  Abrahanu" 


THE  FAMILY  TREE  5 

in  the  Downs.  Being  at  Paris,  father  must  needs  visit 
Alsace,  our  native  country,  and  having  scarce  one  guinea 
to  rub  against  another,  of  course  chose  to  fall  in  love  with 
my  mother  and  marry  her  out  of  hand.  Mons.  mon  pere, 
I  fear,  was  but  a  prodigal ;  but  he  was  his  parents'  only 
living  child,  and  when  he  came  home  to  Winchelsea, 
hungry  and  penniless,  with  a  wife  on  his  hand,  they  killed 
their  fattest  calf,  and  took  both  wanderers  in.  A  short 
while  after  her  marriage,  my  mother  inherited  some 
property  from  her  parents  in  France,  and  most  tenderly 
nursed  my  grandmother  through  a  long  illness,  in  which 
the  good  lady  died.  Of  these  matters  I  knew  nothing 
personally,  being  at  the  time  a  child  two  or  three  years 
old ;  crying  and  sleeping,  drinking  and  eating,  growing, 
and  having  my  infantile  ailments,  like  other  little  dar- 
lings. 

A  violent  woman  was  my  mother,  jealous,  hot,  and 
domineering,  but  generous  and  knowing  how  to  forgive. 
I  fancy  my  papa  gave  her  too  many  opportunities  of  ex- 
ercising this  virtue,  for,  during  his  brief  life,  he  was  ever 
in  scrapes  and  trouble.  He  met  with  an  accident  when 
fishing  off  the  French  coast,  and  was  brought  home  and 
died,  and  was  buried  at  Winchelsea ;  but  the  cause  of  his 
death  I  never  knew  until  my  good  friend  Sir  Peter  Denis 
told  me  in  later  years,  when  I  had  come  to  have  troubles 
of  my  own. 

I  was  born  on  the  same  day  with  his  Royal  Highness 
the  Duke  of  York,  viz.  the  13th  of  August,  1763,  and 
used  to  be  called  the  Bishop  of  Osnaburg  by  the  boys  in 
Winchelsea,  where  between  us  French  boys  and  the  Eng- 
lish boys  I  promise  you  there  was  many  a  good  battle. 
Besides  being  ancien  and  precentor  of  the  French  church 
at  Winchelsea,  grandfather  was  a  perruquier  and  barber 


6  DENIS  DUVAL 

by  trade;  and,  if  you  must  know  it,  I  have  curled  and 
powdered  a  gentleman's  head  before  this,  and  taken  him 
by  the  nose  and  shaved  him.  I  do  not  brag  of  having 
used  lather  and  brush :  but  what  is  the  use  of  disguising 
anything?  Tout  se  sfait,  as  the  French  have  it,  and  a 
great  deal  more  too.  There  is  Sir  Humphrey  Howard, 
who  served  with  me  second-lieutenant  in  the  "  Meleager  " 
— he  says  he  comes  from  the  N— f-lk  Howards;  but  his 
father  was  a  shoemaker,  and  we  always  called  him  Hum- 
phrey Snob  in  the  gunroom. 

In  France  very  few  wealthy  ladies  are  accustomed  to 
nurse  their  children,  and  the  little  ones  are  put  out  to 
farmers'  wives  and  healthy  nurses,  and  perhaps  better 
cared  for  than  by  their  own  meagre  mothers.  My  mo- 
ther's mother,  an  honest  farmer's  wife  in  Lorraine  (for 
I  am  the  first  gentleman  of  my  family,  and  chose  my 
motto  ^  of  fecimus  ipsi  not  with  pride,  but  with  humble 
thanks  for  my  good  fortune) ,  had  brought  up  Mademoi- 
selle Clarisse  de  Viomesnil,  a  Lorraine  lady,  between 
whom  and  her  foster-sister  there  continued  a  tender 
friendship  long  after  the  marriage  of  both.  Mother 
came  to  England,  the  w^ife  of  Monsieur  mon  papa;  and 
jNIademoiselle  de  Viomesnil  married  in  her  own  country. 
She  was  of  the  Protestant  branch  of  the  Viomesnil  fam- 
ily, and  all  the  poorer  in  consequence  of  her  parents' 
fidelity  to  their  religion.  Other  members  of  the  family 
were  of  the  Catholic  religion,  and  held  in  high  esteem  at 
Versailles. 

Some  short  time  after  my  mother's  arrival  in  England, 
she  heard  that  her  dear  foster-sister  Clarisse  was  going 
to  marry  a  Protestant  gentleman  of  Lorraine,  Vicomte 

'  The  Admiral  insisted  on  takinp  or  on  a  bend  sable,  three  razors  displayed 
proper,  with  the  above  motto.  The  family  have  adopted  the  mother's  coat- 
of-arras. 


THE  FAMILY  TREE  7 

de  Barr,  only  son  of  M.  le  Comte  de  Saverne,  a  chamber- 
lain to  his  Polish  Majesty  King  Stanislas,  father  of 
the  French  Queen.  M.  de  Saverne,  on  his  son's  mar- 
riage, gave  up  to  the  Vicomte  de  Barr  his  house  at  Sa- 
verne, and  here  for  a  while  the  newly  married  couple 
lived.  I  do  not  say  the  young  couple,  for  the  Vicomte 
de  Barr  was  five-and-twenty  years  older  than  his  wife, 
who  was  but  eighteen  when  her  parents  married  her.  As 
my  mother's  eyes  were  very  weak,  or,  to  say  truth,  she 
was  not  very  skilful  in  reading,  it  used  to  be  my  lot  as  a 
boy  to  spell  out  my  lady  Viscountess's  letters  to  her  soeur 
de  lait,  her  good  Ursule:  and  many  a  smart  rap  with 
the  rolling-pin  have  I  had  over  my  noddle  from  mother 
as  I  did  my  best  to  read.  It  was  a  word  and  a  blow  wdth 
mother.  She  did  not  spare  the  rod  and  spoil  the  child, 
and  that  I  suppose  is  the  reason  why  I  am  so  w^ell  grown 
— six  feet  two  in  my  stockings,  and  fifteen  stone  four 
last  Tuesday,  when  I  was  weighed  along  with  our  pig. 
Mem. — My  neighbour's  hams  at  Rose  Cottage  are  the 
best  in  all  Hampshire. 

I  was  so  young  that  I  could  not  understand  all  I  read. 
But  I  remember  mother  used  to  growl  in  her  rough  way 
(she  had  a  grenadier  height  and  voice,  and  a  pretty 
smart  pair  of  black  whiskers  too)  — my  mother  used  to 
cry  out,  "  She  suiFers— my  Biche  is  unhappy— she  has 
got  a  bad  husband.  He  is  a  brute.  All  men  are  brutes." 
And  with  this  she  would  glare  at  grandpapa,  who  was  a 
very  humble  little  man,  and  trembled  before  his  hru,  and 
obeyed  her  most  obsequiously.  Then  mother  would  vow 
she  would  go  home,  she  would  go  and  succour  her  Biche ; 
but  who  would  take  care  of  these  two  imbeciles?  mean- 
ing me  and  my  grandpapa.  Besides,  Madame  Duval 
was  wanted  at  home.     She  dressed  many  ladies'  heads. 


8  DENIS  DUVAL 

with  very  great  taste,  in  the  French  way,  and  could 
shave,  frizz,  cut  hair,  and  tie  a  queue  along  with  the  best 
barber  in  the  county.  Grandfather  and  the  apprentice 
wove  the  wigs ;  when  I  was  at  home,  I  was  too  j^oung  for 
that  work,  and  was  taken  off  from  it,  and  sent  to  a  fa- 
mous good  school,  Pocock's  grammar-school  at  Rye, 
where  I  learned  to  speak  English  like  a  Briton  born  as 
I  am,  and  not  as  we  did  at  home,  where  we  used  a  queer 
Alsatian  jargon  of  French  and  German.  At  Pocock's 
I  got  a  little  smattering  of  Latin,  too,  and  plenty  of 
fighting  for  the  first  month  or  two.  I  remember  my  pa- 
tron coming  to  see  me  in  uniform,  blue  and  white  laced 
with  gold,  silk  stockings  and  white  breeches,  and  two 
of  his  officers  along  with  him.  "  Where  is  Denis 
Duval?  "  says  he,  peeping  into  our  school-room,  and  all 
the  boys  looking  round  with  wonder  at  the  great  gentle- 
man. Master  Denis  Duval  was  standing  on  a  bench  at 
that  very  moment  for  punishment,  for  fighting  I  sup- 
pose, with  a  black  eye  as  big  as  an  omelette.  "  Denis 
would  do  very  well  if  he  would  keep  his  fist  off"  other 
boys'  noses,"  says  the  master;  and  the  Captain  gave  me 
a  seven-shilling  piece,  and  I  spent  it  all  but  twopence 
before  the  night  was  over,  I  remember.  Whilst  I  was  at 
Pocock's,  I  boarded  with  Mr.  Rudge,  a  tradesman,  who, 
besides  being  a  grocer  at  Rye,  was  in  the  seafaring  way, 
and  part  owner  of  a  fishing-boat ;  and  he  took  so7ne  very 
queer  fish  in  his  nets,  as  you  shall  hear  soon.  He  was  a 
chief  man  among  the  Wesleyans,  and  I  attended  his 
church  with  him,  not  paying  much  attention  to  those 
most  serious  and  sacred  things  in  my  early  years,  when 
I  was  a  thoughtless  boy,  caring  for  nothing  but  lollipops, 
hoops,  and  marbles. 

Captain  Denis  was  a  very  pleasant,  lively  gentleman, 


THE   FAMILY  TREE  9 

and  on  this  day  he  asked  the  master,  Mr.  Coates,  what 
was  the  Latin  for  a  holiday,  and  hoped  Mr.  C.  would 
give  one  to  his  boys.  Of  course  we  sixty  boys  shouted 
yes  to  that  proposal ;  and  as  for  me.  Captain  Denis  cried 
out,  "  Mr.  Coates,  I  press  this  fellow  with  the  black  eye 
here,  and  intend  to  take  him  to  dine  with  me  at  the 
'  Star.'  "  You  may  be  sure  I  skipped  off  my  bench,  and 
followed  my  patron.  He  and  his  two  officers  went  to 
the  "  Star,"  and  after  dinner  called  for  a  crown  bowl  of 
punch,  and  though  I  would  drink  none  of  it,  never  hav- 
ing been  able  to  bear  the  taste  of  rum  or  brandy,  I  was 
glad  to  come  out  and  sit  with  the  gentlemen,  who  seemed 
to  be  amused  with  my  childish  prattle.  Captain  Denis 
asked  me  what  I  learned,  and  I  dare  say  I  bragged  of 
my  little  learning :  in  fact  I  remember  talking  in  a  pom- 
pous way  about  Corderius  and  Cornelius  Nepos;  and  I 
have  no  doubt  gave  myself  very  grand  airs.  He  asked 
whether  I  liked  Mr.  Rudge,  the  grocer  with  whom  I 
boarded.  I  did  not  like  him  much,  I  said;  but  I  hated 
Miss  Rudge  and  Bevil  the  apprentice  most  because  they 
were  always  ....  here  I  stopped.  "  But  there  is  no 
use  in  telling  tales  out  of  school,"  says  I.  "  We  don't  do 
that  at  Pocock's,  we  don't." 

And  what  was  my  grandmother  going  to  make  of  me  ? 
I  said  I  should  like  to  be  a  sailor,  but  a  gentleman  sailor, 
and  fight  for  King  George.  And  if  I  did  I  would  bring 
all  my  prize-money  home  to  Agnes,  that  is,  almost  all  of 
it — only  keep  a  little  of  it  for  myself. 

"And  so  you  like  the  sea,  and  go  out  sometimes?  "  asks 
Mr.  Denis. 

Oh,  yes,  I  went  out  fishing.  Mr.  Rudge  had  a  half 
share  of  a  boat  along  with  grandfather,  and  I  used  to 
help  to  clean  her,  and  was  taught  to  steer  her,  with  many 


10  DENIS  DUVAL 

a  precious  slap  on  the  head  if  I  got  her  in  the  wind ;  and 
they  said  I  was  very  good  look-out.  I  could  see  well, 
and  remember  bluffs  and  headlands  and  so  forth;  and 
I  mentioned  several  places,  points  of  our  coasts,  ay,  and 
the  French  coast  too. 

"And  what  do  you  fish  for? "  asks  the  Captain. 

"  Oh,  sir,  I'm  not  to  say  anything  about  that,  Mr. 
Rudge  says!"  on  which  the  gentlemen  roared  with 
laughter.  They  knew  Master  Rudge's  game,  though  I 
in  my  innocence  did  not  understand  it. 

"And  so  you  won't  have  a  drop  of  punch?  "  asks  Cap- 
tain Denis. 

"  No,  sir,  I  made  a  vow  I  would  not,  when  I  saw  Miss 
Rudge  so  queer." 

"  Miss  Rudge  is  often  queer,  is  she? " 

"  Yes,  the  nasty  pig!  And  she  calls  names,  and  slips 
downstairs,  and  knocks  the  cups  and  saucers  about,  and 
fights  the  apprentice,  and— but  I  mustn't  say  anything 
more.    I  never  tell  tales,  I  don't !  " 

In  this  way  I  went  on  prattling  with  my  patron  and 
his  friends,  and  they  made  me  sing  them  a  song  in 
French,  and  a  song  in  German,  and  they  laughed  and 
seemed  amused  at  my  antics  and  capers.  Captain  Denis 
walked  home  with  me  to  our  lodgings,  and  I  told  him 
how  I  liked  Sunday  the  best  day  of  the  week — that  is, 
every  other  Sunday — because  I  went  away  quite  early, 
and  walked  three  miles  to  mother  and  grandfather  at 
Winchelsea,  and  saw  Agnes. 

And  who,  pray,  was  Agnes?  To-day  her  name  is 
Agnes  Duval,  and  she  sits  at  her  work-table  hard-by. 
The  lot  of  my  life  has  been  changed  by  knowing  her. 
To  win  such  a  prize  in  life's  lottery  is  given  but  to  very, 


THE  FAMILY  TREE  11 

very  few.  What  I  have  done  (of  any  worth)  has  been 
done  in  trying  to  deserve  her.  I  might  have  remained, 
but  for  her,  in  my  humble  native  lot,  to  be  neither  honest 
nor  happy,  but  that  my  good  angel  yonder  succoured 
me.  All  I  have  I  owe  to  her :  but  I  pay  with  all  I  have, 
and  what  creature  can  do  more? 


CHAPTER  II 

THE    HOUSE   OF   SA VERNE 

MADEMOISELLE  DE  SAVERNE  came  from 
Alsace,  where  her  family  occupied  a  much  higher 
rank  than  that  held  by  the  worthy  Protestant  elder  from 
whom  her  humble  servant  is  descended.  Her  mother 
was  a  Viomesnil,  her  father  was  of  a  noble  Alsatian  fam- 
ily, Counts  of  Barr  and  Saverne.  The  old  Count  de 
Saverne  was  alive,  and  a  chamberlain  in  the  court  of  his 
Polish  Majesty  good  King  Stanislas  at  Nanci,  when  his 
son  the  Vicomte  de  Barr,  a  man  already  advanced  in 
years,  brought  home  his  blooming  young  bride  to  that 
pretty  little  capital. 

The  Count  de  Saverne  was  a  brisk  and  cheery  old  gen- 
tleman, as  his  son  was  gloomy  and  severe.  The  Count's 
hotel  at  Nanci  was  one  of  the  gayest  of  the  little  court. 
His  Protestantism  was  by  no  means  austere.  He  was 
even  known  to  regret  that  there  were  no  French  convents 
for  noble  damsels  of  the  Protestant  confession,  as  there 
were  across  the  Rhine,  where  his  own  two  daughters 
might  be  bestowed  out  of  the  way.  JNIesdemoiselles  de 
Saverne  were  ungainly  in  appearance,  fierce  and  sour  in 
temper,  resembling,  in  these  particulars,  their  brother 
Mons.  le  Baron  de  Barr. 

In  his  youth,  Monsieur  de  Barr  had  served  not  with- 
out distinction,  being  engaged  against  Messieurs  the 
English  at  Hastenbeck  and  Laufeldt,  where  he  had 

12 


THE  HOUSE  OF  SAVERNE  13 

shown  both  courage  and  capacity.  His  Protestantism 
prevented  his  promotion  in  the  army.  He  left  it,  stead- 
fast in  his  faith,  but  soured  in  his  temper.  He  did  not 
care  for  whist  or  music,  Hke  his  easy  old  father.  His 
appearance  at  the  Count's  httle  suppers  was  as  cheerful 
as  a  death's-head  at  a  feast.  M.  de  Barr  only  frequented 
these  entertainments  to  give  pleasure  to  his  young  wife, 
who  pined  and  was  wretched  in  the  solitary  family  man- 
sion of  Saverne,  where  the  Vicomte  took  up  his  residence 
when  first  married. 

He  was  of  an  awful  temper,  and  subject  to  storms  of 
passion.  Being  a  very  conscientious  man,  he  suffered 
extremely  after  one  of  these  ebullitions  of  rage.  Be- 
tween his  alternations  of  anger  and  remorse,  his  life  was 
a  sad  one;  his  household  trembled  before  him,  and  es- 
pecially the  poor  little  wife  whom  he  had  brought  out  of 
her  quiet  country  village  to  be  the  victim  of  his  rage  and 
repentances.  INIore  than  once  she  fled  to  the  old  Count 
of  Saverne  at  Nanci,  and  the  kindly  selfish  old  gentle- 
man used  his  feeble  endeavours  to  protect  his  poor  little 
daughter-in-law.  Quickly  after  these  quarrels  letters 
would  arrive,  containing  vows  of  the  most  abject 
repentance  on  the  Baron's  part.  These  matrimonial 
campaigns  followed  a  regular  course.  First  rose  the  out- 
break of  temper;  then  the  lady's  flight  ensued  to  papa- 
in-law  at  Nanci;  then  came  letters  expressive  of  grief; 
then  the  repentant  criminal  himself  arrived,  whose  an- 
guish and  cries  of  inea  culpa  were  more  insupportable 
than  his  outbreaks  of  rage.  After  a  few  years,  Madame 
de  Barr  lived  almost  entirely  with  her  father-in-law  at 
Nanci,  and  was  scarcely  seen  in  her  husband's  gloomy 
mansion  of  Saverne. 

For  some  years  no  child  was  born  of  this  most  un- 


14  DENIS  DUVAL 

happy  union.  Just  when  poor  King  Stanislas  came  by 
his  lamentable  death  (being  burned  at  his  own  fire) ,  the 
old  Count  de  Saverne  died,  and  his  son  found  that  he 
inherited  little  more  than  his  father's  name  and  title  of 
Saverne,  the  family  estate  being  greatly  impoverished 
by  the  late  Count's  extravagant  and  indolent  habits,  and 
much  weighed  down  by  the  portions  awarded  to  the 
Demoiselles  de  Saverne,  the  elderly  sisters  of  the  present 
elderly  lord. 

The  town  house  at  Nanci  was  shut  up  for  a  while ;  and 
the  new  Lord  of  Saverne  retired  to  his  castle  with  his 
sisters  and  his  wife.  With  his  Catholic  neighbours  the 
stern  Protestant  gentleman  had  little  communion;  and 
the  society  which  frequented  his  dull  house  chiefly  con- 
sisted of  Protestant  clergymen  who  came  from  the  other 
side  of  the  Rhine.  Along  its  left  bank,  which  had  only 
become  French  territory  of  late  years,  the  French  and 
German  languages  were  spoken  indifferently;  in  the 
latter  language  M.  de  Saverne  was  called  the  Herr  von 
Zabern.  After  his  father's  death,  Herr  von  Zabern  may 
have  melted  a  little,  but  he  soon  became  as  moody,  vio- 
lent, and  ill-conditioned  as  ever  the  Herr  von  Barr  had 
been.  Saverne  was  a  little  country  town,  with  the  crumb- 
ling old  Hotel  de  Saverne  in  the  centre  of  the  place,  and 
a  straggling  street  stretching  on  either  side.  Behind  the 
house  were  melancholy  gardens,  squared  and  clipped 
after  the  ancient  French  fashion,  and,  beyond  the  gar- 
den wall,  some  fields  and  woods,  part  of  the  estate  of  the 
Saverne  family.  These  fields  and  woods  were  fringed 
by  another  great  forest,  which  had  once  been  the  prop- 
erty of  the  house  of  Saverne,  but  had  been  purchased 
from  the  late  easy  proprietor  by  Messeigneurs  de  Rohan, 
Princes  of  the  Empire,  of  France,  and  the  Church,  Car- 


THE   HOUSE   OF   SAVERNE  15 

dinals,  and  Archbishops  of  Strasbourg,  between  whom 
and  their  gloomy  Protestant  neighbour  there  was  no 
good-will.  Not  only  questions  of  faith  separated  them, 
but  questions  of  chasse.  The  Count  de  Saverne,  who 
loved  shooting,  and  beat  his  meagre  woods  for  game  with 
a  couple  of  lean  dogs,  and  a  fowling-piece  over  his  shoul- 
der, sometimes  came  in  sight  of  the  grand  hunting- 
parties  of  Monseigneur  the  Cardinal,  w^ho  w^ent  to  the 
chase  like  a  Prince  as  he  was,  with  piqueurs  and  horn- 
blowers,  whole  packs  of  dogs,  and  a  troop  of  gentlemen 
in  his  uniform.  Not  seldom  his  Eminence's  keepers  and 
M.  de  Saverne's  solitary  garde-chasse  had  quarrels. 
"  Tell  your  master  that  I  will  shoot  any  red-legs  Avhich 
come  upon  my  land,"  M.  de  Saverne  said  in  one  of  these 
controversies,  as  he  held  up  a  partridge  w^hich  he  had 
just  brought  down;  and  the  keeper  knew  the  moody 
nobleman  would  be  true  to  his  word. 

Two  neighbours  so  ill-disposed  towards  one  another 
w^ere  speedily  at  law;  and  in  the  courts  at  Strasbourg  a 
poor  provincial  gentleman  was  likely  to  meet  with  scanty 
justice  when  opposed  to  such  a  powerful  enemy  as  the 
Prince  Archbishop  of  the  province,  one  of  the  greatest 
noblemen  of  the  kingdom.  Boundary  questions,  in  a 
land  where  there  are  no  hedges,  game,  forest,  and  fishery 
questions— how  can  I  tell,  who  am  no  lawyer,  what  set 
the  gentlemen  at  loggerheads?  In  later  days  I  met  one 
M.  Georgel,  an  Abbe,  who  had  been  a  secretary  of  the 
Prince  Cardinal,  and  he  told  me  that  ^I.  de  Saverne  was 
a  headlong,  violent,  ill-conditioned  little  mauvais  cou- 
cheur,  as  they  say  in  France,  and  ready  to  quarrel  with 
or  without  a  reason. 

These  quarrels  naturally  took  the  Count  de  Saverne 
to  his  advocates  and  lawyers  at  Strasbourg,  and  he  would 


16  DENIS  DUVAL 

absent  himself  for  days  from  home,  where  his  poor  wife 
was  perhaps  not  sorry  to  be  rid  of  him.  It  chanced,  on 
one  of  these  expeditions  to  the  chief  town  of  his  province, 
that  he  fell  in  with  a  former  comrade  in  his  campaigns 
of  Hastenbeck  and  Laufeldt,  an  officer  of  Soubise's 
regiment,  the  Baron  de  la  Motte.^  La  Motte  had  been 
destined  to  the  Church,  like  many  cadets  of  good  family, 
but,  his  elder  brother  dying,  he  was  released  from  the 
tonsure  and  the  seminary,  and  entered  the  army  under 
good  protection.  Mesdemoiselles  de  Saverne  remem- 
bered this  M.  de  la  JNIotte  at  Nanci  in  old  days.  He  bore 
the  worst  of  characters ;  he  was  gambler,  intriguer,  duel- 
list, profligate.  I  suspect  that  most  gentlemen's  repu- 
tations came  off  ill  under  the  tongues  of  these  old  ladies, 
and  have  heard  of  other  countries  where  mesdemoiselles 
are  equally  hard  to  please.  "  Well,  have  we  not  all  our 
faults?"  I  imagine  M.  de  Saverne  saying,  in  a  rage. 
"  Is  there  no  such  thing  as  calumny?  Are  we  never  to 
repent,  if  we  have  been  wrong?  I  know  he  has  led  a 
wild  youth.  Others  may  have  done  as  much.  But  prodi- 
gals have  been  reclaimed  ere  now,  and  I  for  my  part  will 
not  turn  my  back  on  this  one."  "Ah,  I  wish  he  had!  " 
De  la  Motte  said  to  me  myself  in  later  days,  "  but  it  was 
his  fate,  his  fate!  " 

One  day,  then,  the  Count  de  Saverne  returns  home 
from  Strasbourg  with  his  new  friend;  presents  the 
Baron  de  la  Motte  to  the  ladies  of  his  house,  makes  the 
gloomy  place  as  cheerful  as  he  can  for  his  guest,  brings 
forth  the  best  wine  from  his  cave,  and  beats  his  best  cov- 
ers for  game.     I  myself  knew  the  Baron  some  years 

*  That  unlucky  Prince  de  Rohan  was  to  suffer  by  another  Delamotte,  who, 
with  his  "  Valois  "  of  a  wife,  played  such  a  notorious  part  in  the  famous 
"  diamond  necklace  "  business,  but  the  two  worthies  were  not,  I  believe,  re- 
lated.—D.  D. 


THE    HOUSE    OF    SAVERNE  17 

later;— a  handsome,  tall,  sallow-faced  man,  with  a  shifty 
eye,  a  soft  voice,  and  a  grand  manner.  Monsieur  de 
Saverne  for  his  part  was  short,  black,  and  ill-favoured, 
as  I  have  heard  my  mother  say.  But  Mrs.  Duval  did 
not  love  him,  fancying  that  he  ill-treated  her  Biche. 
Where  she  disliked  people,  my  worthy  parent  would 
never  allow  them  a  single  good  quality;  but  she  always 
averred  that  Monsieur  de  la  Motte  was  a  perfect  fine 
gentleman. 

The  intimacy  between  these  two  gentlemen  increased 
apace.  M.  de  la  Motte  was  ever  welcome  at  Saverne:  a 
room  in  the  house  was  called  his  room:  their  visitor  was 
an  acquaintance  of  their  enemy  the  Cardinal  also,  and 
would  often  come  from  the  one  chateau  to  the  other. 
Laughingly  he  would  tell  how  angry  Monseigneur  was 
with  his  neighbour.  He  wished  he  could  make  peace  be- 
tween the  two  houses.  He  gave  quite  good  advice  to 
Monsieur  de  Saverne,  and  pointed  out  the  danger  he  ran 
in  provoking  so  powerful  an  adversary.  Men  had  been 
imprisoned  for  life  for  less  reason.  The  Cardinal  might 
get  a  lettre  de  cachet  against  his  obstinate  opponent. 
He  could,  besides,  ruin  Saverne  with  fines  and  law  costs. 
The  contest  between  the  two  was  quite  unequal,  and  the 
weaker  party  must  inevitably  be  crushed,  unless  these 
unhappy  disputes  should  cease.  As  far  as  the  ladies  of 
the  house  dared  speak,  they  coincided  in  the  opinion  of 
M.  de  la  Motte,  and  were  for  submission  and  reconcilia- 
tion with  their  neighbours.  Madame  de  Saverne's  own 
relations  heard  of  the  feud,  and  implored  the  Count  to 
bring  it  to  an  end.  It  was  one  of  these,  the  Baron  de 
Viomesnil,  going  to  command  in  Corsica,  who  entreated 
M.  de  Saverne  to  accompany  him  on  the  campaign. 
Anywhere  the  Count  was  safer  than  in  his  own  house 


18  DENIS  DUVAL 

with  an  implacable  and  irresistible  enemy  at  his  gate. 
INI.  de  Saverne  yielded  to  his  kinsman's  importunities. 
He  took  down  his  sword  and  pistols  of  Laufeldt  from 
the  wall,  where  they  had  hung  for  twenty  years.  He 
set  the  affairs  of  his  house  in  order,  and  after  solemnly 
assembling  his  family,  and  on  his  knees  confiding  it  to 
the  gracious  protection  of  heaven,  he  left  home  to  join 
the  suite  of  the  French  General. 

A  few  weeks  after  he  left  home — several  years  after 
his  marriage — his  wife  wrote  to  inform  him  that  she  was 
likely  to  be  a  mother.  The  stern  man,  who  had  been  very 
unhappy  previously,  and  chose  to  think  that  his  wife's 
barrenness  w^as  a  punishment  of  Heaven  for  some  crime 
of  his  or  hers,  was  very  much  moved  by  this  announce- 
ment. I  have  still  at  home  a  German  Bible  which  he 
used,  and  in  which  is  written  in  the  German  a  very  affect- 
ing prayer  composed  by  him,  imploring  the  Divine  bless- 
ing upon  the  child  about  to  be  born,  and  hoping  that  this 
infant  might  grow  in  grace,  and  bring  peace  and  love 
and  unity  into  the  household.  It  would  appear  that  he 
made  no  doubt  he  should  have  a  son.  His  hope  and  aim 
were  to  save  in  every  possible  way  for  this  child.  I  have 
read  many  letters  of  his  which  he  sent  from  Corsica  to  his 
wife,  and  which  she  kept.  They  were  full  of  strange 
minute  orders,  as  to  the  rearing  and  education  of  this 
son  that  was  to  be  born.  He  enjoined  saving  amount- 
ing to  niggardhness  in  his  household,  and  calculated  how 
much  might  be  put  away  in  ten,  in  twenty  years,  so  that 
the  coming  heir  might  have  a  property  worthy  of  his 
ancient  name.  In  case  he  should  fall  in  action,  he  laid 
commands  upon  his  wife  to  pursue  a  system  of  the  most 
rigid  economy,  so  that  the  child  at  coming  of  age  might 
be  able  to  appear  creditably  in  the  world.    In  these  let- 


THE  HOUSE  OF   SAVERNE  19 

ters,  I  remember,  the  events  of  the  campaign  were  dis- 
missed in  a  very  few  words ;  the  main  part  of  the  letters 
consisted  of  prayers,  speculations,  and  prophecies  re- 
garding the  child,  and  sermons  couched  in  the  language 
of  the  writer's  stern  creed.  When  the  child  was  born, 
and  a  girl  appeared  in  place  .of  the  boy,  upon  whom  the 
poor  father  had  set  his  heart,  I  hear  the  family  were  so 
dismayed,  that  they  hardly  dared  to  break  the  news  to 
the  chief  of  the  house. 

Who  told  me  ?  The  same  man  who  said  he  wished  he 
had  never  seen  M.  de  Saverne:  the  man  for  whom  the 
unhappy  gentleman  had  conceived  a  warm  friendship; — 
the  man  who  was  to  bring  a  mysterious  calamity  upon 
those  whom,  as  I  do  think,  and  in  his  selfish  way,  he 
loved  sincerely,  and  he  spoke  at  a  time  when  he  could 
have  little  desire  to  deceive  me. 

The  lord  of  the  castle  is  gone  on  the  campaign.  The 
chatelaine  is  left  alone  in  her  melancholy  tower  with  her 
two  dismal  duennas.  ]My  good  mother,  speaking  in 
later  days  about  these  matters,  took  up  the  part  of  her 
Biche  against  the  Ladies  of  Barr  and  their  brother,  and 
always  asserted  that  the  tyranny  of  the  duennas,  and  the 
meddling,  and  the  verbosity,  and  the  ill  temper  of  M. 
de  Saverne  himself,  brought  about  the  melancholy  events 
which  now  presently  ensued.  The  Count  de  Saverne 
was  a  little  man  (my  mother  said)  who  loved  to  hear 
himself  talk,  and  who  held  forth  from  morning  till  night. 
His  life  was  a  fuss.  He  would  weigh  the  coffee,  and 
count  the  lumps  of  sugar,  and  have  a  finger  in  every  pie 
in  his  frugal  house.  Night  and  morning  he  preached 
sermons  to  his  family,  and  he  continued  to  preach  when 
not  en  chaire,  laying  down  the  law  upon  all  subjects,  un- 
tiringly voluble.    Cheerfulness  in  the  company  of  such  a 


20  DENIS  DUVAL 

man  was  hypocrisy.  Mesdames  de  Barr  had  to  dis- 
guise weariness,  to  assume  an  air  of  contentment,  and 
to  appear  to  be  interested  when  the  Count  preached.  As 
for  the  Count's  sisters,  they  were  accustomed  to  listen 
to  their  brother  and  lord  with  respectful  submission. 
They  had  a  hundred  domestic  occupations:  they  had 
baking  and  boiling,  and  pickling,  and  washing,  and 
endless  embroidery:  the  life  of  the  little  chateau  was 
quite  supportable  to  them.  They  knew  no  better. 
Even  in  their  father's  days  at  Nanci,  the  ungainly  wo- 
men kept  pretty  much  aloof  from  the  world,  and  were 
little  better  than  domestic  servants  in  waiting  on  Mon- 
seigneur. 

And  Madame  de  Saverne,  on  her  first  entrance  into 
the  family,  accepted  the  subordinate  position  meekly 
enough.  She  spun  and  she  bleached,  and  she  worked 
great  embroideries,  and  busied  herself  about  her  house, 
and  listened  demurely  whilst  Monsieur  le  Comte  was 
preaching.  But  then  there  came  a  time  when  her  du- 
ties interested  her  no  more,  when  his  sermons  became 
especially  wearisome,  when  sharp  words  passed  be- 
tween her  and  her  lord,  and  the  poor  thing  exhibited 
symptoms  of  impatience  and  revolt.  And  with  the 
revolt  arose  awful  storms  and  domestic  battles;  and 
after  battles,  submission,  reconciliation,  forgiveness, 
hypocrisy. 

It  has  been  said  that  Monsieur  de  Saverne  loved  the 
sound  of  his  own  croaking  voice,  and  to  hold  forth  to  his 
own  congregation.  Night  after  night  he  and  his  friend 
M.  de  la  INIotte  would  have  religious  disputes  together, 
in  which  the  Huguenot  gentleman  flattered  himself  that 
he  constantly  had  the  better  of  the  ex-pupil  of  the  semi- 
nary.   I  was  not  present  naturally,  not  setting  my  foot 


THE  HOUSE   OF   SAVERNE  21 

on  French  ground  until  five-and-twenty  years  after,  but 
I  can  fancy  JNIadame  the  Countess  sitting  at  her  tambour 
frame,  and  the  old  duenna  ladies  at  their  cards,  and  the 
combat  of  the  churches  going  on  between  these  two 
champions  in  the  little  old  saloon  of  the  Hotel  de  Sa- 
verne.  "As  I  hope  for  pardon,"  M.  de  la  Motte  said 
to  me  at  a  supreme  moment  of  his  life,  "  and  to  meet 
those  whom  on  earth  I  loved,  and  made  unhappy,  no 
wrong  passed  between  Clarisse  and  me,  save  that  wrong 
which  consisted  in  disguising  from  her  husband  the  re- 
gard we  had  for  one  another.  Once,  twice,  thrice,  I 
went  away  from  their  house,  but  that  unhappy  Saverne 
w^ould  bring  me  back,  and  I  was  only  too  glad  to  return. 
I  would  let  him  talk  for  hours— I  own  it— so  that  I  might 
be  near  Clarisse.  I  had  to  answer  from  time  to  time,  and 
rubbed  up  my  old  seminary  learning  to  reply  to  his  ser- 
mons. I  must  often  have  spoken  at  random,  for  my 
thoughts  were  far  away  from  the  poor  man's  radotages, 
and  he  could  no  more  change  my  convictions  than  he 
could  change  the  colour  of  my  skin.  Hours  and  hours 
thus  passed  away.  They  would  have  been  intolerably 
tedious  to  others:  they  were  not  so  to  me.  I  preferred 
that  gloomy  little  chateau  to  the  finest  place  in  Europe. 
To  see  Clarisse,  was  all  I  asked.  Denis!  There  is  a 
power  irresistible  impelling  all  of  us.  From  the  moment 
I  first  set  eyes  on  her,  I  knew  she  was  my  fate.  I  shot 
an  English  grenadier  at  Hastenbeck,  who  would  have 
bayoneted  poor  Saverne  but  for  me.  As  I  lifted  him  up 
from  the  ground,  I  thought,  '  I  shall  have  to  repent  of 
ever  having  seen  that  man.'  I  felt  the  same  thing, 
Duval,  when  I  saw  you."  And  as  the  unhappy  gentle- 
man spoke,  I  remembered  how  I  for  my  part  felt  a 
singular   and   unpleasant    sensation   as   of   terror   and 


22  DENIS  DUVAL 

approaching  evil  when  first  I  looked  at  that  handsome 
ill-omened  face. 

I  thankfully  believe  the  words  which  M.  de  la  Motte 
spoke  to  me  at  a  time  when  he  could  have  no  cause  to 
disguise  the  truth;  and  am  assured  of  the  innocence  of 
the  Countess  de  Saverne.  Poor  lady!  if  she  erred  in 
thought,  she  had  to  pay  so  awful  a  penalty  for  her  crime, 
that  we  humbly  hope  it  has  been  forgiven  her.  She  was 
not  true  to  her  husband,  though  she  did  him  no  wrong. 
If,  while  trembling  before  him,  she  yet  had  dissimulation 
enough  to  smile  and  be  merry,  I  suppose  no  preacher  or 
husband  would  be  very  angry  with  her  for  that  hypoc- 
risy. I  have  seen  a  slave  in  the  West  Indies  soundly 
cuffed  for  looking  sulky:  we  expect  our  negroes  to  be 
obedient  and  to  be  happy  too. 

Now  when  M.  de  Saverne  w^ent  away  to  Corsica,  I 
suspect  he  was  strongly  advised  to  take  that  step  by  his 
friend  M.  de  la  Motte.  When  he  was  gone,  M.  de  la 
Motte  did  not  present  himself  at  the  Hotel  de  Saverne, 
where  an  old  schoolfellow  of  his,  a  pastor  and  preacher 
from  Kehl,  on  the  German  Rhine  bank,  was  installed  in 
command  of  the  little  garrison,  from  which  its  natural 
captain  had  been  obliged  to  withdraw;  but  there  is  no 
doubt  that  poor  Clarisse  deceived  this  gentleman  and 
her  two  sisters-in-law,  and  acted  towards  them  with  a 
very  culpable  hypocrisy. 

Although  there  was  a  deadly  feud  between  the  two 
chateaux  of  Saverne— namely,  the  Cardinal's  new-built 
castle  in  the  Park,  and  the  Count's  hotel  in  the  little  town 
—yet  each  house  knew  more  or  less  of  the  other's  doings. 
When  the  Prince  Cardinal  and  his  court  were  at  Sa- 
verne, Mesdemoiselles  de  Barr  were  kept  perfectly  well 
informed  of  all  the  festivities  which  they  did  not  share. 


THE  HOUSE  OF   SAVERNE  23 

In  our  little  Fareport  here,  do  not  the  JNIiss  Prys,  my 
neighbours,  know  what  I  have  for  dinner,  the  amount  of 
my  income,  the  price  of  my  wife's  last  gown,  and  the 
items  of  my  son's,  Captain  Scapegrace's,  tailor's  bill? 
No  doubt  the  ladies  of  Barr  were  equally  well  informed 
of  the  doings  of  the  Prince  Coadjutor  and  his  court. 
Such  gambling,  such  splendour,  such  painted  hussies 
from  Strasbourg,  such  plays,  masquerades,  and  orgies 
as  took  place  in  that  castle !  Mesdemoiselles  had  the  very 
latest  particulars  of  all  these  horrors,  and  the  Cardinal's 
castle  was  to  them  as  the  castle  of  a  wicked  ogre.  From 
her  little  dingy  tower  at  night  Madame  de  Saverne  could 
look  out,  and  see  the  Cardinal's  sixty  palace  windows  all 
a-flame.  Of  summer  nights,  gusts  of  unhallowed  music 
would  be  heard  from  the  great  house,  where  dancing  fes- 
tivals, theatrical  pieces  even,  were  performed.  Though 
Madame  de  Saverne  was  forbidden  by  her  husband  to 
frequent  those  assemblies,  the  townspeople  were  up  to 
the  palace  from  time  to  time,  and  Madame  could  not 
help  hearing  of  the  doings  there.  In  spite  of  the  Count's 
prohibition,  his  gardener  poached  in  the  Cardinal's 
woods;  one  or  two  of  the  servants  were  smuggled  in 
to  see  a  fete  or  a  ball ;  then  Madame's  own  woman  went ; 
then  Madame  herself  began  to  have  a  wicked  longing  to 
go,  as  JNIadame's  first  ancestress  had  for  the  fruit  of  the 
forbidden  tree.  Is  not  the  apple  always  ripe  on  that  tree, 
and  does  not  the  tempter  for  ever  invite  you  to  pluck  and 
eat?  JNIadame  de  Saverne  had  a  lively  little  waiting- 
maid,  whose  bright  eyes  loved  to  look  into  neighbours' 
parks  and  gardens,  and  who  had  found  favour  with  one 
of  the  domestics  of  the  Prince  Archbishop.  This  woman 
brought  news  to  her  mistress  of  the  feasts,  balls,  ban- 
quets, nay,  comedies,  which  were  performed  at  the  Prince 


24  DENIS  DUVAL 

Cardinal's.  The  Prince's  gentlemen  went  hunting  in 
his  uniform.  He  was  served  on  plate,  and  a  lacquey  in 
his  livery  stood  behind  each  guest.  He  had  the  French 
comedians  over  from  Strasbourg.  Oh!  that  M.  de 
]\Ioliere  was  a  droll  gentleman,  and  how  grand  the 
"  Cid"  was! 

Now,  to  see  these  plays  and  balls,  Martha,  the  maid, 
must  have  had  intelligence  in  and  out  of  both  the  houses 
of  Saverne.  She  must  have  deceived  those  old  dragons, 
JNIesdemoiselles.  She  must  have  had  means  of  creeping 
out  at  the  gate,  and  silently  creeping  back  again.  She 
told  her  mistress  everything  she  saw,  acted  the  plays  for 
her,  and  described  the  dresses  of  the  ladies  and  gentle- 
men. Madame  de  Saverne  was  never  tired  of  hearing 
her  maid's  stories.  When  Martha  was  going  to  a  fete, 
Madame  lent  her  some  little  ornament  to  wear,  and  yet 
when  Pasteur  Schnorr  and  Mesdemoiselles  talked  of  the 
proceedings  at  Great  Saverne,  and  as  if  the  fires  of  Go- 
morrah were  ready  to  swallow  up  that  palace,  and  all 
within  it,  the  Lady  of  Saverne  sat  demurely  in  silence, 
and  listened  to  their  croaking  and  sermons.  Listened? 
The  pastor  exhorted  the  household,  the  old  ladies 
talked  night  after  night,  and  poor  Madame  de  Saverne 
never  heeded.  Her  thoughts  were  away  in  Great  Sa- 
verne; her  spirit  was  for  ever  hankering  about  those 
woods.  Letters  came  now  and  again  from  M.  de  Sa- 
verne, with  the  army.  They  had  been  engaged  with  the 
enemy!  Very  good.  He  was  unhurt.  Heaven  be  praised ! 
And  then  the  grim  husband  read  his  poor  little  wife  a 
grim  sermon ;  and  the  grim  sisters  and  the  chaplain  com- 
mented on  it.  Once,  after  an  action  at  Calvi,  Monsieur 
de  Saverne,  who  was  always  specially  lively  in  moments 
of  danger,  described  how  narrowly  he  had  escaped  with 


THE  HOUSE  OF   SAVERNE  25 

his  life,  and  the  chaplain  took  advantage  of  the  circum- 
stance, and  delivered  to  the  household  a  prodigious  dis- 
course on  death,  on  danger,  on  preservation  here  and 
hereafter,  and  alas,  and  alas!  poor  Madame  de  Saverne 
found  that  she  had  not  listened  to  a  word  of  the  homily. 
Her  thoughts  were  not  with  the  preacher,  nor  with  the 
captain  of  Viomesnil's  regiment  before  Calvi ;  they  were 
in  the  palace  at  Great  Saverne,  with  the  balls,  and  the 
comedies,  and  the  music,  and  the  fine  gentlemen  from 
Paris  and  Strasbourg,  and  out  of  the  Empire  beyond 
the  Rhine,  who  frequented  the  Prince's  entertainments. 
What  happened  where  the  wicked  spirit  was  whisper- 
ing, "Eat,"  and  the  tempting  apple  hung  within  reach? 
One  night  when  the  household  was  at  rest,  Madame  de 
Saverne,  muffled  in  cloak  and  calash,  with  a  female  com- 
panion similarly  disguised,  tripped  silently  out  of  the 
back  gate  of  the  Hotel  de  Saverne,  found  a  carriole  in 
waiting,  with  a  driver  who  apparently  knew  the  road 
and  the  passengers  he  was  to  carry,  and  after  half-an- 
hour's  drive  through  the  straight  avenues  of  the  park  of 
Great  Saverne,  alighted  at  the  gates  of  the  chateau, 
where  the  driver  gave  up  the  reins  of  the  carriole  to  a 
domestic  in  waiting,  and,  by  doors  and  passages  which 
seemed  perfectly  well  known  to  him,  the  coachman  and 
the  two  women  entered  the  castle  together  and  found 
their  way  to  a  gallery  in  a  great  hall,  in  which  many 
lords  and  ladies  were  seated,  and  at  the  end  of  which  was 
a  stage,  with  a  curtain  before  it.  Men  and  women  came 
backwards  and  forwards  on  this  stage,  and  recited  dia- 
logue in  verses.  O  mercy!  it  was  a  comedy  they  were 
acting,  one  of  those  wicked  delightful  plays  which  she 
was  forbidden  to  see,  and  which  she  was  longing  to  be- 
hold!   After  the  comedy  was  to  be  a  ball,  in  which  the 


26  DENIS  DUVAL 

actors  would  dance  in  their  stage  habits.  Some  of  the 
people  were  in  masks  already,  and  in  that  box  near  to  the 
stage,  surromided  by  a  little  crowd  of  dominoes,  sate 
Monseigneur  the  Prince  Cardinal  himself.  IMadame  de 
Saverne  had  seen  him  and  his  cavalcade  sometimes  re- 
turning from  hunting.  She  would  have  been  as  much 
puzzled  to  say  what  the  play  was  about  as  to  give  an 
account  of  Pasteur  Schnorr's  sermon  a  few  hours  before. 
But  Frontin  made  jokes  with  his  master  Damis;  and 
Geronte  locked  up  the  doors  of  his  house,  and  went  to 
bed  grumbling;  and  it  grew  quite  dark,  and  Mathurine 
flung  a  rope-ladder  out  of  window,  and  she  and  her  mis- 
tress Elmire  came  down  the  ladder;  and  Frontin  held 
it,  and  Elmire,  with  a  little  cry,  fell  into  the  arms  of 
Mons.  Damis;  and  master  and  man,  and  maid  and 
mistress,  sang  a  merry  chorus  together,  in  which  human 
frailty  was  very  cheerfully  depicted ;  and  when  they  had 
done,  away  they  went  to  the  gondola  which  was  in  wait- 
ing at  the  canal  stairs,  and  so  good  night.  And  when  old 
Geronte,  wakened  up  by  the  disturbance,  at  last  came 
forth  in  his  nightcap,  and  saw  the  boat  paddling  away 
out  of  reach,  you  may  be  sure  that  the  audience  laughed 
at  the  poor  impotent  raging  old  wretch.  It  was  a  very 
merry  play  indeed,  and  is  still  popular  and  performed  in 
France  and  elsewhere. 

After  the  play  came  a  ball.  Would  Madame  dance? 
Would  the  noble  Countess  of  Saverne  dance  with  a 
coachman?  There  were  others  below  on  the  dancing- 
floor  dressed  in  mask  and  domino  as  she  was.  Who  ever 
said  she  had  a  mask  and  domino?  You  see  it  has  been 
stated  that  she  was  muffled  in  cloak  and  calash.  Well, 
is  not  a  domino  a  cloak?  and  has  it  not  a  hood  or  calash 
appended  to  it?  and,  pray,  do  not  women  wear  masks  at 
home  as  well  as  at  the  Ridotto? 


THE  HOUSE  OF  SAVERNE  27 

Another  question  arises  here.  A  high-born  lady  en- 
trusts herself  to  a  charioteer,  who  drives  her  to  the  castle 
of  a  prince  her  husband's  enemy.  Who  was  her  com- 
panion? Of  course  he  could  be  no  other  than  that  luck- 
less Monsieur  de  la  Motte.  He  had  never  been  very  far 
away  from  Madame  de  Saverne  since  her  husband's  de- 
parture. In  spite  of  chaplains,  and  duennas,  and 
guards,  and  locks  and  keys,  he  had  found  means  of  com- 
municating with  her.  How?  By  what  lies  and  strata- 
gems? By  what  arts  and  bribery?  These  poor  people 
are  both  gone  to  their  account.  Both  suffered  a  fearful 
punishment.  I  will  not  describe  their  follies,  and  don't 
care  to  be  Mons.  Figaro,  and  hold  the  ladder  and  lan- 
tern, while  the  count  scales  Rosina's  window.  Poor, 
frightened,  erring  soul !  She  suffered  an  awful  penalty 
for  what,  no  doubt,  was  a  great  wrong. 

A  child  almost,  she  was  married  to  M.  de  Saverne, 
without  knowing  him,  without  liking  him,  because  her 
parents  ordered  her,  and  because  she  was  bound  to  com- 
ply with  their  M^ill.  She  was  sold,  and  went  to  her 
slavery.  She  lived  at  first  obediently  enough.  If  she 
shed  tears,  they  were  dried;  if  she  quarrelled  with  her 
husband,  the  two  were  presently  reconciled.  She  bore 
no  especial  malice,  and  was  as  gentle,  subordinate  a  slave 
as  ever  you  shall  see  in  Jamaica  or  Barbadoes.  No- 
body's tears  were  sooner  dried,  as  I  should  judge:  none 
would  be  more  ready  to  kiss  the  hand  of  the  overseer  who 
drove  her.  But  you  don't  expect  sincerity  and  sub- 
servience too.  I  know,  for  my  part,  a  lady  who  only 
obeys  when  she  likes :  and  faith !  it  may  be  it  is  I  who  am 
the  hypocrite,  and  have  to  tremble,  and  smile,  and 
swindle  before  her. 

When  ISIadame  de  Saverne's  time  was  nearly  come,  it 
was  ordered  that  she  should  go  to  Strasbourg,  where  the 


28  DENIS  DUVAL 

best  medical  assistance  is  to  be  had :  and  here,  six  months 
after  her  husband's  departure  for  Corsica,  their  child, 
Agnes  de  Saverne,  was  born. 

Did  secret  terror  and  mental  disquietude  and  remorse 
now  fall  on  the  unhappy  lady?  She  wrote  to  my  mother, 
at  this  time  her  only  confidante  ( and  yet  not  a  confidante 
of  all!)— "O  Ursule!  I  dread  this  event.  Perhaps  I 
shall  die.  I  think  I  hope  I  shall.  In  these  long  days, 
since  he  has  been  away,  I  have  got  so  to  dread  his  return,  ^ 
that  I  believe  I  shall  go  mad  when  I  see  him.  Do  you 
know,  after  the  battle  before  Calvi,  when  I  read  that 
many  officers  had  been  killed,  I  thought,  is  M.  de 
Saverne  killed?  And  I  read  the  list  down,  and  his  name 
was  not  there :  and,  my  sister,  my  sister,  I  was  not  glad ! 
Have  I  come  to  be  such  a  monster  as  to  wish  my  own 
husband  .  .  .  No.  I  wish  I  was.  I  can't  speak  to  M. 
Schnorr  about  this.  He  is  so  stupid.  He  doesn't  un- 
derstand me.  He  is  like  my  husband;  for  ever  preach- 
ing me  his  sermons. 

"Listen,  Ursule!  Speak  it  to  nobody!  I  have  been 
to  hear  a  sermon.  Oh,  it  was  indeed  divine!  It  was  not 
from  one  of  our  pastors.  Oh,  how  they  weary  me!  It 
was  from  a  good  bishop  of  the  French  Church — not  our 
German  Church — the  Bishop  of  Amiens — who  happens 
to  be  here  on  a  visit  to  the  Cardinal  Prince.  The  bishop's 
name  is  M.  de  la  Motte.  He  is  a  relative  of  a  gentleman 
of  whom  we  have  seen  a  great  deal  lately — of  a  great 
friend  of  M.  de  Saverne,  who  saved  my  husband's  life  in 
the  battle  M.  de  S.  is  always  talking  about. 

"  How  beautiful  the  cathedral  is!  It  was  night  when 
I  went.  The  church  was  lighted  like  the  stars,  and  the 
music  was  like  Heaven.  Ah,  how  different  from  M. 
Schnorr  at  home,  from— from  somebody  else  at  my  new 


THE  HOUSE  OF   SAVERNE  29 

home  who  is  always  preaching— that  is,  when  he  is  at 
home!  Poor  man!  I  wonder  whether  he  preaches  to 
them  in  Corsica!  I  pity  them  if  he  does.  Don't  men- 
tion the  cathedral  if  you  write  to  me.  •  The  dragons  don't 
know  anything  about  it.  How  they  would  scold  if  they 
did!  Oh,  how  they  ennuyent  me,  the  dragons!  Behold 
them!  They  think  I  am  writing  to  my  husband.  All, 
Ursule!  When  I  write  to  him,  I  sit  for  hours  before 
the  paper.  I  say  nothing;  and  what  I  say  seems  to  be 
lies.  Whereas  when  I  write  to  you,  my  pen  runs— runs! 
The  paper  is  covered  before  I  think  I  have  begun.  So 
it  is  when  I  write  to  ....  I  do  believe  that  vilain 
dragon  is  peej-ing  at  my  note  with  her  spectacles !  Yes, 
my  good  sister,  I  am  writing  to  M.  le  Comte!  " 

To  this  letter  a  postscript  is  added,  as  by  the  coun- 
tess's command,  in  the  German  language,  in  which  Ma- 
dame de  Saverne's  medical  attendant  announces  the 
birth  of  a  daughter,  and  that  the  child  and  mother  are 
doing  well. 

That  daughter  is  sitting  before  me  now— with  spec- 
tacles on  nose  too — very  placidly  spelling  the  Ports- 
mouth paper,  where  I  hope  she  will  soon  read  the  pro- 
motion of  IVIonsieur  Scapegrace,  her  son.  She  has 
exchanged  her  noble  name  for  mine,  which  is  only  humble 
and  honest.  My  dear!  your  eyes  are  not  so  bright  as 
once  I  remember  them,  and  the  raven  locks  are  streaked 
with  silver.  To  shield  thy  head  from  dangers  has  been 
the  blessed  chance  and  duty  of  my  life.  When  I  turn 
towards  her,  and  see  her  moored  in  our  harbour  of  rest, 
after  our  life's  chequered  voyage,  calm  and  happy,  a 
sense  of  immense  gratitude  fills  my  being,  and  my  heart 
says  a  hymn  of  praise. 

The  first  days  of  the  hfe  of  Agnes  de  Saverne  were 


30  DENIS  DUVAL 

marked  by  incidents  which  were  strangely  to  influence 
her  career.  Around  her  little  cradle  a  double,  a  triple 
tragedy  was  about  to  be  enacted.  Strange  that  death, 
crime,  revenge,  remorse,  mystery,  should  attend  round 
the  cradle  of  one  so  innocent  and  pure — as  pure  and  in- 
nocent, I  pray  Heaven  now,  as  upon  that  day  when,  at 
scarce  a  month  old,  the  adventures  of  her  life  began. 

That  letter  to  my  mother,  written  by  JNIadame  de 
Saverne  on  the  eve  of  her  child's  birth,  and  finished  by 
her  attendant,  bears  date  November  25,  1768.  A  month 
later  Martha  Seebach,  her  attendant,  wrote  (in  Ger- 
man) that  her  mistress  had  suffered  frightfully  from 
fever ;  so  much  so  that  her  reason  left  her  for  some  time, 
and  her  life  was  despaired  of.  Mesdemoiselles  de  Barr 
were  for  bringing  up  the  child  by  hand;  but  not  being 
versed  in  nursery  practices,  the  infant  had  ailed  sadly 
until  restored  to  its  mother.  Madame  de  Saverne  was 
now  tranquil.  Madame  was  greatly  better.  She  had 
suffered  most  fearfully.  In  her  illness  she  was  constantly 
calling  for  her  foster-sister  to  protect  her  from  some 
danger,  which,  as  she  appeared  to  fancy,  menaced 
Madame. 

Child  as  I  was  at  the  time  when  these  letters  were  pass- 
ing, I  remember  the  arrival  of  the  next.  It  lies  in  yonder 
drawer,  and  was  written  by  a  poor  fevered  hand  which  is 
now  cold,  in  ink  which  is  faded  after  fifty  years. ^  I  re- 
member my  mother  screaming  out  in  German,  which  she 
always  spoke  when  strongly  moved,  "  Dear  Heaven,  my 
child  is  mad— is  mad!"  And  indeed  that  poor  faded 
letter  contains  a  strange  rhapsody. 

"  Ursule!  "  she  wrote  (I  do  not  care  to  give  at  length 

'  The  memoirs  appear  to  have  been  written  in  the  years  '20,  '21.  Mr.  Duval 
was  gazetted  Rear-Admiral  and  K.C.B.  in  the  promotions  on  the  accession 
of  King  George  IV. 


THE  HOUSE  OF   SAVERNE  31 

the  words  of  the  poor  wandering  creature),  "after  my 
child  was  born  the  demons  wanted  to  take  her  from  me. 
But  I  struggled  and  kept  her  quite  close,  and  now  they 
can  no  longer  hurt  her.  I  took  her  to  church.  Martha 
went  with  me,  and  He  was  there— he  always  is— to  de- 
fend me  from  the  demons,  and  I  had  her  christened 
Agnes,  and  I  was  christened  Agnes  too.  Think  of  my 
being  christened  at  twenty-two!  Agnes  the  First,  and 
Agnes  the  Second.  But  though  my  name  is  changed,  I 
am  always  the  same  to  my  Ursule,  and  my  name  now  is, 
Agnes  Clarisse  de  Saverne,  born  de  Viomesnil." 

She  had  actually,  when  not  quite  mistress  of  her  own 
reason,  been  baptized  into  the  Roman  Catholic  Church 
with  her  child.  Was  she  sane  when  she  so  acted?  Had 
she  thought  of  the  step  before  taking  it?  Had  she 
known  Catholic  clergymen  at  Saverne,  or  had  she  other 
reasons  for  her  conversion  than  those  which  were  fur- 
nished in  the  conversations  which  took  place  between  her 
husband  and  ^I.  de  la  ^lotte?  In  this  letter  the  poor 
lady  says,  "  Yesterday  two  persons  came  to  my  bed  with 
gold  crowns  round  their  heads.  One  was  dressed  like 
a  priest ;  one  was  beautiful  and  covered  with  arrows,  and 
they  said,  'We  are  Saint  Fabian  and  Saint  Sebastian; 
and  to-morrow  is  the  day  of  St.  Agnes :  and  she  will  be 
at  church  to  receive  you  there.'  " 

What  the  real  case  was  I  never  knew.  The  Protestant 
clergyman  whom  I  saw  in  after  days  could  only  bring 
his  book  to  show  that  he  had  christened  the  infant,  not 
Agnes,  but  Augustine.  Martha  Seebach  is  dead.  La 
Motte,  when  I  conversed  with  him,  did  not  touch  upon 
this  part  of  the  poor  lady's  history.  I  conjecture  that 
the  images  and  pictures  which  she  had  seen  in  the 
churches  operated  upon  her  fevered  brain ;  that,  having 


32  DENIS  DUVAL 

procured  a  Roman  Calendar  and  Missal,  she  knew  saints' 
days  and  feasts;  and,  not  yet  recovered  from  her  de- 
lirium or  quite  responsible  for  the  actions  which  she  per- 
formed, she  took  her  child  to  the  cathedral,  and  was 
baptized  there. 

And  now,  no  doubt,  the  poor  lady  had  to  practise  more 
deceit  and  concealment.  The  "demons"  were  the  old 
maiden  sisters  left  to  watch  over  her.  She  had  to  hood- 
wink these.  Had  she  not  done  so  before— when  she 
went  to  the  Cardinal's  palace  at  Saverne?  Wherever  the 
poor  thing  moved  I  fancy  those  ill-omened  eyes  of  La 
Motte  glimmering  upon  her  out  of  the  darkness.  Poor 
Eve— not  lost  quite,  I  pray  and  think,— but  that  serpent 
was  ever  trailing  after  her,  and  she  was  to  die  poisoned 
in  its  coil.  Who  shall  understand  the  awful  ways  of 
Fate?  A  year  after  that  period  regarding  which  I  write, 
a  lovely  Imperial  Princess  rode  through  the  Strasbourg 
streets  radiant  and  blushing,  amidst  pealing  bells,  roar- 
ing cannon,  garlands  and  banners,  and  shouting  multi- 
tudes. Did  any  one  ever  think  that  the  last  stage  of  that 
life's  journey  was  to  be  taken  in  a  hideous  tumbrel,  and 
to  terminate  on  a  scaffold?  The  hfe  of  Madame  de 
Saverne  was  to  last  but  a  year  more,  and  her  end  to  be 
scarcely  less  tragical. 

Many  physicians  have  told  me  how  often  after  the 
birth  of  a  child  the  brain  of  a  mother  will  be  affected. 
Madame  de  Saverne  remained  for  some  time  in  this 
febrile  condition,  if  not  unconscious  of  her  actions,  at 
least  not  accountable  for  all  of  them.  At  the  end  of 
three  months  she  woke  up  as  out  of  a  dream,  having  a 
dreadful  recollection  of  the  circumstances  which  had 
passed.  Under  what  hallucinations  we  never  shall  know, 
or  yielding  to  what  persuasions,  the  wife  of  a  stern  Prot- 


THE  HOUSE  OF  SAVERNE  33 

estant  nobleman  had  been  to  a  Roman  Catholic  church, 
and  had  been  christened  there  with  her  child.  She  never 
could  recall  that  ste}).  A  great  terror  came  over  her  as 
she  thought  of  it— a  great  terror  and  a  hatred  of  her  hus- 
band, the  cause  of  all  her  grief  and  her  fear.  She  began 
to  look  out  lest  he  should  return ;  she  clutched  her  child 
to  her  breast,  and  barred  and  bolted  all  doors  for  fear 
people  should  rob  her  of  the  infant.  The  Protestant 
chaplain,  the  Protestant  sisters-in-law,  looked  on  with 
dismay  and  anxiety;  they  thought  justly  that  Madame 
de  Saverne  was  not  yet  quite  restored  to  her  reason; 
they  consulted  the  physicians,  who  agreed  with  them; 
who  arrived,  who  prescribed;  who  were  treated  by  the 
patient  wath  scorn,  laughter,  insult  sometimes;  some- 
times with  tears  and  terror,  according  to  her  wayward 
mood.  Her  condition  was  most  puzzling.  The  sisters 
wrote  from  time  to  time  guarded  reports  respecting  her 
to  her  husband  in  Corsica.  He,  for  his  part,  replied  in- 
stantly with  volumes  of  his  wonted  verbose  common- 
place. He  acquiesced  in  the  decrees  of  Fate,  when  in- 
formed that  a  daughter  was  born  to  him ;  and  presently 
wrote  whole  reams  of  instructions  regarding  her  nur- 
ture, dress,  and  physical  and  religious  training.  The 
child  was  called  Agnes?  He  w^ould  have  preferred  Bar- 
bara, as  being  his  mother's  name.  I  remember  in  some 
of  the  poor  gentleman's  letters  there  were  orders  about 
the  child's  pap,  and  instructions  as  to  the  nurse's  diet. 
He  was  coming  home  soon.  The  Corsicans  had  been  de- 
feated in  every  action.  Had  he  been  a  Catholic  he  would 
have  been  a  knight  of  the  King's  orders  long  ere  this. 
M.  de  Viomesnil  hoped  still  to  get  for  him  the  order  of 
Military  Merit  (the  Protestant  order  which  his  JNIajesty 
had    founded    ten    years    previously).      These    letters 


34  DENIS  DUVAL 

(which  were  subsequently  lost  by  an  accident  at  sea^) 
spoke  modestly  enough  of  the  Count's  personal  adven- 
tures. I  hold  him  to  have  been  a  very  brave  man,  and 
only  not  tedious  and  prolix  when  he  spoke  of  his  own 
merits  and  services. 

The  Count's  letters  succeeded  each  other  post  after 
post.  The  end  of  the  war  was  approaching,  and  with  it 
his  return  was  assured.  He  exulted  in  the  thought  of 
seeing  his  child,  and  leading  her  in  the  way  she  should 
go — the  right  way,  the  true  way.  As  the  mother's  brain 
cleared,  her  terror  grew  greater — her  terror  and  loath- 
ing of  her  husband.  She  could  not  bear  the  thought  of 
his  return,  or  to  face  him  with  the  confession  which  she 
knew  she  must  make.  His  wife  turn  Catholic  and  bap- 
tize his  child?  She  felt  he  would  kill  her,  did  he  know 
what  had  happened.  She  went  to  the  priest  who  had 
baptized  her.  M.  Georgel  (his  Eminence's  secretary) 
knew  her  husband.  The  Prince  Cardinal  was  so  great 
and  powerful  a  prelate,  Georgel  said,  that  he  would  pro- 
tect her  against  all  the  wrath  of  all  the  Protestants  in 
France.  I  think  she  must  have  had  interviews  with  the 
Prince  Cardinal,  though  there  is  no  account  of  them  in 
any  letter  to  my  mother. 

The  campaign  was  at  an  end.  M.  de  Vaux,  M.  de  Vio- 
mesnil,  both  wrote  in  highly  eulogistic  terms  of  the  con- 
duct of  the  Count  de  Saverne.  Their  good  wishes  would 
attend  him  home;  Protestant  as  he  was  their  best  in- 
terest should  be  exerted  in  his  behalf. 

The  day  of  the  Count's  return  approached.  The  day 
arrived:  I  can  fancy  the  brave  gentleman  with  beating 

^  The  letters  from  Madame  de  Saverne  to  my  mother  at  Winchelsea  were 
not  subject  to  this  mishap,  but  were  always  kept  by  Madame  Duval  in  her 
own  escritoire. 


THE  HOUSE  OF   SAVERNE  35 

heart  ascending  the  steps  of  the  homely  lodging  where 
his  family  have  been  living  at  Strasbourg  ever  since  the 
infant's  birth.  How  he  has  dreamt  about  that  child: 
prayed  for  her  and  his  wife  at  night-watch  and  bivouac 
— prayed  for  them  as  he  stood,  calm  and  devout,  in  the 
midst  of  battle 

When  he  enters  the  room,  he  sees  only  two  frightened 
domestics  and  the  two  ghastly  faces  of  his  scared  old 
sisters. 

"  Where  are  Clarisse  and  the  child? "  he  asks. 

The  child  and  the  mother  were  gone.  The  aunts  knew 
not  where. 

A  stroke  of  palsy  could  scarcely  have  smitten  the  un- 
happy gentleman  more  severely  than  did  the  news  which 
his  trembling  family  was  obliged  to  give  him.  In  later 
days  I  saw  M.  Schnorr,  the  German  pastor  from  Kehl, 
who  has  been  mentioned  already,  and  who  was  installed 
in  the  Count's  house  as  tutor  and  chaplain  during  the 
absence  of  the  master.  "  When  Madame  de  Saverne 
went  to  make  her  coucher  at  Strasbourg"  (M.  Schnorr 
said  to  me) ,  "  I  retired  to  my  duties  at  Kehl,  glad  enough 
to  return  to  the  quiet  of  my  home,  for  the  noble  lady's 
reception  of  me  was  anything  but  gracious;  and  I  had 
to  endure  much  female  sarcasm  and  many  unkind  words 
from  Madame  la  Comtesse,  whenever,  as  in  dutj^  bound, 
I  presented  myself  at  her  table.  Sir,  that  most  unhappy 
lady  used  to  make  sport  of  me  before  her  domestics. 
She  used  to  call  me  her  gaoler.  She  used  to  mimic  my 
ways  of  eating  and  drinking.  She  would  yawn  in  the 
midst  of  my  exhortations,  and  cry  out,  '  O  que  c'est 
bete ! '  and  when  I  gave  out  a  Psalm,  would  utter  little 
cries,  and  say,  '  Pardon  me,  INI.  Schnorr,  but  you  sing  so 
out  of  tune  you  make  my  head  ache ; '  so  that  I  could 


36  DENIS  DUVAL 

scarcely  continue  that  portion  of  the  service,  the  very 
domestics  laughing  at  me  when  I  began  to  sing.  My 
life  was  a  martyrdom,  but  I  bore  my  tortures  meekly, 
out  of  a  sense  of  duty  and  my  love  for  M.  le  Comte. 
When  her  ladyship  kept  her  chamber  I  used  to  wait 
almost  daily  upon  Mesdemoiselles  the  Count's  sisters,  to 
ask  news  of  her  and  her  child.  I  christened  the  infant ; 
but  her  mother  was  too  ill  to  be  present,  and  sent  me  out 
word  by  Mademoiselle  ISIarthe  that  she  should  call  the 
child  Agnes,  though  I  might  name  it  what  I  pleased. 
This  was  on  the  21st  January,  and  I  remember  being 
struck,  because  in  the  Roman  Calendar  the  feast  of  St. 
Agnes  is  celebrated  on  that  day. 

"  Haggard  and  actually  grown  grey,  from  a  black 
man  which  he  was,  my  poor  lord  came  to  me  with  wild- 
ness  and  agony  of  grief  in  all  his  features  and  actions,  to 
announce  to  me  that  Madame  the  Countess  had  fled,  tak- 
ing her  infant  with  her.  And  he  had  a  scrap  of  paper 
with  him,  over  which  he  wept  and  raged  as  one  demented ; 
now  pouring  out  fiercer  imprecations,  now  bursting  into 
passionate  tears  and  cries,  calling  upon  his  wife,  his  dar- 
ling, his  prodigal,  to  come  back,  to  bring  him  his  child, 
when  all  should  be  forgiven.  As  he  thus  spoke  his 
screams  and  groans  were  so  piteous,  that  I  myself  was 
quite  unmanned,  and  my  mother,  who  keeps  house  for 
me  (and  who  happened  to  be  listening  at  the  door) ,  was 
likewise  greatly  alarmed  by  my  poor  lord's  passion  of 
grief.  And  when  I  read  on  that  paper  that  my  lady 
countess  had  left  the  faith  to  which  our  fathers  gloriously 
testified  in  the  midst  of  trouble,  slaughter,  persecution, 
and  bondage,  I  was  scarcely  less  shocked  than  my  good 
lord  himself. 

"  We  crossed  the  bridge  to  Strasbourg  back  again  and 


THE  HOUSE  OF  SAVERNE  37 

went  to  the  Cathedral  Church,  and  entering  there,  we 
saw  the  Abbe  Georgel  coming  out  of  a  chapel  where  he 
had  been  to  perform  his  devotions.  The  Abbe,  who 
knew  me,  gave  a  ghastly  smile  as  he  recognized  me,  and 
for  a  pale  man,  his  cheek  blushed  up  a  little  when  I  said, 
'  This  is  JNIonsieur  the  Comte  de  Saverne.' 

"'Where  is  she?'  asked  my  poor  lord,  clutching  the 
Abbe's  arm. 

Who? '  asked  the  Abbe,  stepping  back  a  little. 
"'Where  is  my  child?  where  is  my  wife?'  cries  the 
Count. 

Silence,  Monsieur! '  says  the  Abbe.  '  Do  you  know 
in  whose  house  you  are?'  and  the  chant  from  the  altar, 
where  the  service  was  being  performed,  came  upon  us, 
and  smote  my  poor  lord  as  though  a  shot  had  struck 
him.  We  were  standing,  he  tottering  against  a  pillar 
in  the  nave,  close  by  the  christening  font,  and  over  my 
lord's  head  was  a  picture  of  Saint  Agnes. 

"  The  agony  of  the  poor  gentleman  could  not  but 
touch  any  one  who  witnessed  it.  '  M.  le  Comte,'  says  the 
Abbe,  '  I  feel  for  you.  This  great  surprise  has  come 
upon  you  unprepared— I— I  pray  that  it  may  be  for 
your  good.' 

"  '  You  know,  then,  what  has  happened?'  asked  M. 
de  Saverne;  and  the  Abbe  was  obliged  to  stammer  a 
confession  that  he  did  know  what  had  occurred.  He 
was,  in  fact,  the  very  man  who  had  performed  the  rite 
which  separated  my  unhappy  lady  from  the  church  of 
her  fathers. 

Sir,'  he  said,  with  some  spirit,  '  this  was  a  service 
which  no  clergyman  could  refuse.  I  would  to  heaven. 
Monsieur,  that  you,  too,  might  be  brought  to  ask  it 
from  me.' 


38  DENIS  DUVAL 

"  The  poor  Count,  with  despair  in  his  face,  asked  to 
see  the  register  which  confirmed  the  news,  and  there  we 
saw  that  on  the  21st  January,  1769,  being  the  Feast  of 
St.  Agnes,  the  noble  lady,  Clarisse,  Countess  of  Saverne, 
born  de  Viomesnil,  aged  twenty-two  years,  and  Agnes, 
only  daughter  of  the  same  Count  of  Saverne  and  Cla- 
risse his  wife,  were  baptized  and  received  into  the  Church 
in  the  presence  of  two  witnesses  (clerics)  whose  names 
were  signed. 

"  The  poor  Count  knelt  over  the  registry  book  with 
an  awful  grief  in  his  face,  and  in  a  mood  which  I  heartily 
pitied.  He  bent  down,  uttering  what  seemed  an  impre- 
cation rather  than  a  prayer,  and  at  this  moment  it 
chanced  the  service  at  the  chief  altar  was  concluded,  and 
JMonseigneur  and  his  suite  of  clergy  came  into  the  sac- 
risty. Sir,  the  Count  de  Saverne,  starting  up,  clutching 
his  sword  in  his  hand,  and  shaking  his  fist  at  the  Car- 
dinal, uttered  a  wild  speech  calling  down  imprecations 
upon  the  church  of  which  the  prince  was  a  chief :  '  Where 
is  my  lamb  that  you  have  taken  from  me? '  he  said,  using 
the  language  of  the  Prophet  towards  the  King  who  had 
despoiled  him. 

"  The  Cardinal  haughtily  said  the  conversion  of  Ma- 
dame de  Saverne  was  of  heaven,  and  no  act  of  his,  and, 
adding,  '  Bad  neighbour  as  you  have  been  to  me,  sir,  I 
wish  you  so  well  that  I  hope  you  may  follow  her.' 

"At  this  the  Count,  losing  all  patience,  made  a  violent 
attack  upon  the  Church  of  Rome,  denounced  the  Car- 
dinal, and  called  down  maledictions  upon  his  head ;  said 
that  a  day  should  come  when  his  abominable  pride  should 
meet  with  a  punishment  and  fall ;  and  spoke,  as,  in  fact, 
the  poor  gentleman  was  able  to  do  only  too  readily  and 
volubly,  against  Rome  and  all  its  errors. 


THE  HOUSE   OF   SAVERNE  39 

"  The  Prince  Louis  de  Rohan  rephed  with  no  httle 
dignity,  as  I  own.  He  said  that  such  words  in  such  a 
place  were  offensive  and  out  of  all  reason:  that  it  only 
depended  on  him  to  have  M.  de  Saverne  arrested,  and 
punished  for  blasphemy  and  insult  to  the  Church:  but 
that,  pitying  the  Count's  unhappy  condition,  the  Car- 
dinal would  forget  the  hasty  and  insolent  words  he  had 
uttered — as  he  would  know  how  to  defend  IMadame  de 
Saverne  and  her  child  after  the  righteous  step  which  she 
had  taken.  And  he  swept  out  of  the  sacristy  with  his 
suite,  and  passed  through  the  door  which  leads  into  his 
palace,  leaving  my  poor  Count  still  in  his  despair  and 
fury. 

"As  he  spoke  with  those  Scripture  phrases  which  M. 
de  Saverne  ever  had  at  command,  I  remember  how  the 
Prince  Cardinal  tossed  up  his  head  and  smiled.  I  won- 
der whether  he  thought  of  the  words  when  his  own  day 
of  disgrace  came,  and  the  fatal  affair  of  the  diamond 
necklace  which  brought  him  to  ruin."  ^ 

"Not  without  difficulty"  (M.  Schnorr  resumed)  "I 
induced  the  poor  Count  to  quit  the  church  where  his 
wife's  apostasy  had  been  performed.  The  outer  gates 
and  walls  are  decorated  with  numberless  sculptures  of 
saints  of  the  Roman  Calendar:  and  for  a  minute  or 
two  the  poor  man  stood  on  the  threshold  shouting  im- 
precations in  the  sunshine,  and  calling  down  woe 
upon  France  and  Rome.  I  hurried  him  away.  Such 
language  was  dangerous,  and  could  bring  no  good  to 
either  of  us.  He  was  almost  a  madman  when  I  con- 
ducted him  back  to  his  home,  where  the  ladies  his  sisters, 

^  My  informant,  Protestant  though  he  was,  did  not,  as  I  remember,  speak 
with  very  much  asperity  against  the  Prince  Cardinal.  He  said  that  the  prince 
lived  an  edifying  life  after  his  fall,  succouring  the  poor,  and  doing  every- 
thing in  his  power  to  defend  the  cause  of  royalty. — D.  D. 


40  DENIS  DUVAL 

scared  with  his  wild  looks,  besought  me  not  to  leave 
him. 

"Again  he  went  into  the  room  which  his  wife  and  child 
had  inhabited,  and,  as  he  looked  at  the  relics  of  both 
which  still  were  left  there,  gave  way  to  bursts  of  grief 
which  were  pitiable  indeed  to  witness.  I  speak  of  what 
haj^pened  near  forty  years  ago,  and  remember  the  scene 
as  though  yesterday:  the  passionate  agony  of  the  poor 
gentleman,  the  sobs  and  prayers.  On  a  chest  of  drawers 
there  was  a  little  cap  belonging  to  the  infant.  He  seized 
it:  kissed  it:  wept  over  it:  calling  upon  the  mother  to 
bring  the  child  back  and  he  would  forgive  all.  He  thrust 
the  little  cap  into  his  breast :  opened  every  drawer,  book, 
and  closet,  seeking  for  some  indications  of  the  fugitives. 
My  opinion  was,  and  that  even  of  the  ladies,  sisters  of 
M.  le  Comte,  that  Madame  had  taken  refuge  in  a  con- 
vent with  the  child,  that  the  Cardinal  knew  where  she 
was,  poor  and  friendless,  and  that  the  Protestant  gen- 
tleman would  in  vain  seek  for  her.  Perhaps  when 
tired  of  that  place— I  for  my  part  thought  Madame  la 
Comtesse  a  light-minded,  wilful  person,  who  certainly 
had  no  vocation,  as  the  Catholics  call  it,  for  a  religious 
life— I  thought  she  might  come  out  after  a  while,  and 
gave  my  patron  such  consolation  as  I  could  devise,  upon 
this  faint  hope.  He  who  was  all  forgiveness  at  one  min- 
ute, was  all  wrath  at  the  next.  He  would  rather  see  his 
child  dead  than  receive  her  as  a  Catholic.  He  would  go 
to  the  King,  surrounded  by  harlots  as  he  was,  and  ask  for 
justice.  There  were  still  Protestant  gentlemen  left  in 
France,  whose  spirit  was  not  altogether  trodden  down, 
and  they  would  back  him  in  demanding  reparation  for 
tliis  outrage. 

"  I  had  some  vague  suspicion,  which,  however,  I  dis- 


THE  HOUSE  OF  SAVERNE  41 

missed  from  my  mind  as  unworthy,  that  there  might  be 
a  third  party  cognizant  of  Madame's  flight;  and  this 
was  a  gentleman,  once  a  great  favourite  of  M.  le  Comte, 
and  in  whom  I  myself  was  not  a  little  interested.  Three 
or  four  days  after  the  Comte  de  Saverne  went  away  to 
the  war,  as  I  was  meditating  on  a  sermon  which  I  pro- 
posed to  deliver,  walking  at  the  back  of  my  lord's  house 
of  Saverne,  in  the  fields  which  skirt  the  wood  where  the 
Prince  Cardinal's  great  Schloss  stands,  I  saw  this  gen- 
tleman with  a  gun  over  his  shoulder,  and  recognized  him 
— the  Chevalier  de  la  Motte,  the  very  person  who  had 
saved  the  life  of  M.  de  Saverne  in  the  campaign  against 
the  English. 

"  INI.  de  la  Motte  said  he  was  staying  with  the  Car- 
dinal, and  trusted  that  the  ladies  of  Saverne  were  well. 
He  sent  his  respectful  compliments  to  them :  in  a  laugh- 
ing way  said  he  had  been  denied  the  door  when  he  came 
to  a  visit,  which  he  thought  was  an  unkind  act  towards 
an  old  comrade ;  and  at  the  same  time  expressed  his  sor- 
row at  the  Count's  departure — '  for,  Herr  Pfarrer,'  said 
he,  '  you  know  I  am  a  good  Catholic,  and  in  many  most 
important  conversations  which  I  had  with  the  Comte  de 
Saverne,  the  differences  between  our  two  churches  was 
the  subject  of  our  talk,  and  I  do  think  I  should  have  con- 
verted him  to  ours.'  I,  humble  village  pastor  as  I  am, 
was  not  afraid  to  speak  in  such  a  cause,  and  we  straight- 
way had  a  most  interesting  conversation  together,  in 
which,  as  the  gentleman  showed,  I  had  not  the  worst 
of  the  argument.  It  appeared  he  had  been  educated 
for  the  Roman  Church,  but  afterwards  entered  the 
army.  He  was  a  most  interesting  man,  and  his  name 
was  le  Chevalier  de  la  Motte.  You  look  as  if  you 
had  know   him,   M.   le   Capitaine— will  it  please   you 


42  DENIS  DUVAL 

to  replenish  your  pipe,  and  take  another  glass  of  my 
beer? " 

I  said  I  had  effectivement  known  M.  de  la  Motte ;  and 
the  good  old  clergyman  (with  many  compliments  to  me 
for  speaking  French  and  German  so  glibly)  proceeded 
with  his  artless  narrative:  "  I  was  ever  a  poor  horseman: 
and  when  I  came  to  be  chaplain  and  major-domo  at  tlie 
Hotel  de  Saverne,  in  the  Count's  absence,  Madame  more 
than  once  rode  entirely  away  from  me,  saying  that  she 
could  not  afford  to  go  at  my  clerical  jog-trot.  And 
being  in  a  scarlet  amazon,  and  a  conspicuous  object,  you 
see,  I  thought  I  saw  her  at  a  distance  talking  to  a  gen- 
tleman on  a  schimmel  horse,  in  a  grass-green  coat. 
When  I  asked  her  to  whom  she  spoke,  she  said,  '  M.  le 
Pasteur,  you  radotez  with  your  grey  horse  and  your 
green  coat!  If  you  are  set  to  be  a  spy  over  me,  ride 
faster,  or  bring  out  the  old  ladies  to  bark  at  your  side.' 
The  fact  is,  the  Countess  was  for  ever  quarrelling  with 
those  old  ladies,  and  they  were  a  yelping  ill-natured  pair. 
They  treated  me,  a  pastor  of  the  Reformed  Church  of 
the  Augsburg  Confession,  as  no  better  than  a  lacquey, 
sir,  and  made  me  eat  the  bread  of  humiliation ;  whereas 
Madame  la  Comtesse,  though  often  haughty,  flighty, 
and  passionate,  could  also  be  so  winning  and  gentle,  that 
no  one  could  resist  her.  Ah,  sir! "  said  the  pastor,  "  that 
woman  had  a  coaxing  way  with  lier  when  she  chose,  and 
when  her  flight  came  I  was  in  such  a  way  that  the  jealous 
old  sister-in-laws  said  I  was  in  love  with  her  myself. 
Pf ui !  For  a  month  before  my  lord's  arrival  I  had  been 
knocking  at  all  doors  to  see  if  I  could  find  my  poor 
wandering  lady  behind  them.  She,  her  chil.d,  and  Mar- 
tha her  maid,  were  gone,  and  we  knew  not  whither. 

"  On  that  very  first  day  of  his  unhappy  arrival,  M.  le 


THE  HOUSE  OF   SAVERNE  43 

Comte  discovered  what  his  sisters,  jealous  and  curious 
as  they  were,  what  I,  a  man  of  no  inconsiderable  acumen, 
had  failed  to  note.  Amongst  torn  papers  and  chiif ons, 
in  her  ladyship's  bureau,  there  was  a  scrap  with  one  line 
in  her  handwriting — '  JJrside,  JJrsulc,  le  tyran  rev.  .  .  / 
and  no  more. 

"  'Ah!'  M.  le  Comte  said,  'she  is  gone  to  her  foster- 
sister  in  England!  Quick,  quick,  horses!'  And  before 
two  hours  were  passed  he  was  on  horseback,  making  the 
first  stage  of  that  long  journey." 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  TRAVELLERS 

THE  poor  gentleman  was  in  such  haste  that  the  old 
proverb  was  realized  in  his  case,  and  his  journey 
was  anything  but  speedy.  At  Nanci  he  fell  ill  of  a 
fever,  which  had  nearly  carried  him  off,  and  in  which  he 
unceasingly  raved  about  his  child,  and  called  upon  his 
faithless  wife  to  return  her.  Almost  before  he  was  con- 
valescent, he  was  on  his  way  again,  to  Boulogne,  where 
he  saw  that  English  coast  on  which  he  rightly  conjec- 
tured his  fugitive  wife  was  sheltered. 

And  here,  from  my  boyish  remembrance,  which,  re- 
specting these  early  days,  remains  extraordinarily  clear, 
I  can  take  up  the  story,  in  which  I  was  myself  a  very 
young  actor,  playing  in  the  strange,  fantastic,  often  ter- 
rible, drama  which  ensued  a  not  insignificant  part.  As 
I  survey  it  now,  the  curtain  is  down,  and  the  play  long 
over ;  as  I  think  of  its  surprises,  disguises,  mysteries,  es- 
capes, and  dangers,  I  am  amazed  myself,  and  sometimes 
inclined  to  be  almost  as  great  a  fatalist  as  M.  de  la  Motte, 
who  vowed  that  a  superior  Power  ruled  our  actions  for 
us,  and  declared  that  he  could  no  more  prevent  his  des- 
tiny from  accomplishing  itself,  than  he  could  prevent 
his  hair  from  growing.  What  a  destiny  it  was !  What 
a  fatal  tragedy  was  now  about  to  begin ! 

One  evening  in  our  JNIidsummer  holidays,  in  the  year 
1769, 1  remember  being  seated  in  my  little  chair  at  home, 

H 


THE  TRAVELLERS  45 

with  a  tempest  of  rain  beating  down  the  street.  We  had 
customers  on  most  evenings,  but  there  happened  to  be 
none  on  this  night ;  and  I  remember  I  was  puzzhng  over 
a  bit  of  Latin  grammar,  to  which  mother  used  to  keep 
me  stoutly  when  I  came  home  from  school. 

It  is  fifty  years  since.  ^  I  have  forgotten  who  knows 
how  many  events  of  my  life,  which  are  not  much  worth 
the  remembering;  but  I  have  as  clearly  before  my  eyes 
now  a  little  scene  which  occurred  on  this  momentous 
night,  as  though  it  had  been  acted  within  this  hour.  As 
we  are  sitting  at  our  various  employments,  we  hear  steps 
coming  up  the  street,  which  was  empty,  and  silent  but 
for  the  noise  of  the  wind  and  rain.  We  hear  steps— sev- 
eral steps— along  the  pavement,  and  they  stop  at  our 
door. 

"  Madame  Duval !  It  is  Gregson ! "  cries  a  voice  from 
without. 

"All,  bon  Dieu!"  says  mother,  starting  up  and  turn- 
ing quite  white. 

And  then  I  heard  the  ciy  of  an  infant.  Dear  heart! 
How  well  I  remember  that  little  cry ! 

As  the  door  opens,  a  great  gust  of  wind  sets  our  two 
candles  flickering,  and  I  see  enter — 

A  gentleman  giving  his  arm  to  a  lady  who  is  veiled  in 
cloaks  and  wraps,  an  attendant  carrying  a  crying  child, 
and  Gregson  the  boatman  after  them. 

My  mother  gives  a  great  hoarse  shriek,  and  crying  out, 
"Clarisse!  Clarisse!"  rushes  up  to  the  lady,  and  hugs 
and  embraces  her  passionately.  The  child  cries  and 
wails.  The  nurse  strives  to  soothe  the  infant.  The  gen- 
tleman takes  off  his  hat  and  wrings  the  wet  from  it,  and 
looks  at  me.    It  was  then  I  felt  a  strange  shock  and  ter- 

^  The  narrative  seems  to  have  been  written  about  the  year  1820. 


46  DENIS  DUVAL 

ror.  I  have  felt  the  same  shock  once  or  twice  in  my  life : 
and  once,  notably,  the  person  so  affecting  me  has  been 
my  enemy,  and  has  come  to  a  dismal  end. 

"  We  have  had  a  very  rough  voyage,"  says  the  gentle- 
man (in  French)  to  my  grandfather.  "We  have  been 
fourteen  hours  at  sea.  ]\Iadame  has  suffered  greatly, 
and  is  much  exhausted." 

"  Thy  rooms  are  ready,"  says  mother,  fondly.  "  ]My 
poor  Biche,  thou  shalt  sleep  in  comfort  to-night,  and 
need  fear  nothing,  nothing !  " 

A  few  days  before  I  had  seen  mother  and  her  servant 
mightily  busy  in  preparing  the  rooms  on  the  first  floor, 
and  decorating  them.  When  I  asked  whom  she  was  ex- 
pecting, she  boxed  my  ears,  and  bade  me  be  quiet;  but 
these  were  evidently  the  expected  visitors;  and,  of 
course,  from  the  names  which  mother  used,  I  knew  that 
the  lady  was  the  Countess  of  Saverne. 

" And  this  is  thy  son,  Ursule  ? "  says  the  lady.  "  He  is 
a  great  boy!    ]My  little  wretch  is  always  crying." 

"  Oh,  the  little  darling,"  says  mother,  seizing  the  child, 
which  fell  to  crying  louder  than  ever,  "  scared  by  the 
nodding  plume  and  bristling  crest  "  of  Madame  Duval, 
who  wore  a  great  cap  in  those  days,  and  indeed  looked  as 
fierce  as  any  Hector. 

When  the  pale  lady  spoke  so  harshly  about  the  child, 
I  remember  myself  feeling  a  sort  of  surprise  and  dis- 
pleasure. Indeed,  I  have  loved  children  all  my  life,  and 
am  a  fool  about  them  (as  witness  my  treatment  of  my 
own  rascal) ,  and  no  one  can  say  that  I  was  ever  a  tyrant 
at  school,  or  ever  fought  there  except  to  hold  my  own. 

]My  mother  produced  what  food  was  in  the  house,  and 
welcomed  her  guests  to  her  humble  table.  What  trivial 
things  remain  impressed  on  the  memory!    I  remember 


THE  TRAVELLERS  47 

laughing  in  my  boyish  way  because  the  lady  said,  "All! 
c'est  ca  du  the?  je  n'en  ai  jamais  goute.  j\Iais  c'est  tres 
mauvais,  n'est-ce  pas,  M.  le  Chevalier? "  I  suppose  they 
had  not  learned  to  drink  tea  in  Alsace  yet.  Mother 
stopped  my  laughing  with  her  usual  appeal  to  my  ears. 
I  was  daily  receiving  that  sort  of  correction  from  the 
good  soul.  Grandfather  said,  If  Madame  the  Countess 
would  like  a  little  tass  of  real  Nantes  brandy  after  lier 
voyage,  he  could  supply  her;  but  she  would  have  none 
of  that  either,  and  retired  soon  to  her  chamber,  which  had 
been  prepared  for  her  with  my  mother's  best  sheets  and 
diapers,  and  in  which  was  a  bed  for  her  maid  Martha, 
who  had  retired  to  it  with  the  little  crying  child.  For  M. 
le  Chevalier  de  la  INIotte  an  apartment  was  taken  at  Mr. 
Billis's  the  baker's,  down  the  street:— a  friend  who  gave 
me  manj^  a  plum-cake  in  my  childhood,  and  whose  wigs 
grandfather  dressed,  if  you  must  know  the  truth. 

At  morning  and  evening  we  used  to  have  prayers, 
which  grandfather  spoke  with  much  eloquence;  but  on 
this  night,  as  he  took  out  his  great  Bible,  and  was  for 
having  me  read  a  chapter,  my  mother  said,  "  No.  This 
poor  Clarisse  is  fatigued,  and  will  go  to  bed."  And  to 
bed  accordingly  the  stranger  went.  And  as  I  read  my 
little  chapter,  I  remember  how  tears  fell  down  mother's 
cheeks,  and  how  she  cried,  "Ah,  mon  Dieu,  mon  Dieu! 
ayez  pitie  d'elle,"  and  when  I  was  going  to  sing  our 
evening  hymn,  "  Nun  ruhen  alle  Walder,"  she  told  me 
to  hush.  Madame  upstairs  was  tired,  and  wanted  to 
sleep.  And  she  went  upstairs  to  look  after  Madame,  and 
bade  me  to  be  a  little  guide  to  the  strange  gentleman,  and 
show  him  the  way  to  Billis's  house.  Off  I  went,  prat- 
tling by  his  side;  I  dare  say  I  soon  forgot  the  terror 
which  I  felt  when  I  first  saw  him.    You  may  be  sure  all 


48  DENIS  DUVAL 

Winchelsea  knew  that  a  French  lady,  and  her  child,  and 
her  maid,  were  come  to  stay  with  Madame  Duval,  and 
a  French  gentleman  to  lodge  over  the  baker's. 

I  never  shall  forget  my  terror  and  astonishment  when 
mother  told  me  that  this  lady  who  came  to  us  was  a 
Papist.  There  were  two  gentlemen  of  that  religion  liv- 
ing in  our  town,  at  a  handsome  house  called  the  Priory ; 
but  they  had  little  to  do  with  persons  in  my  parents' 
humble  walk  of  life,  though  of  course  my  mother  would 
dress  Mrs.  Weston's  head  as  well  as  any  other  lady's.  I 
forgot  also  to  say  that  Mrs.  Duval  went  out  sometimes 
as  ladies'  nurse,  and  in  that  capacity  had  attended  Mrs. 
Weston,  who,  however,  lost  her  child.  The  Westons  had 
a  chapel  in  their  house,  in  the  old  grounds  of  the  Priory, 
and  clergymen  of  their  persuasion  used  to  come  over 
from  my  Lord  Newburgh's  of  Slindon,  or  from  Arun- 
del, where  there  is  another  great  Papist  house ;  and  one 
or  two  Roman  Cathohcs— there  were  very  few  of  them 
in  our  town— were  buried  in  a  part  of  the  old  gardens 
of  the  Priory,  where  a  monks'  burying-place  had  been 
before  Harry  VIII.'s  time. 

The  new  gentleman  was  the  first  Papist  to  whom  I 
had  ever  spoken;  and  as  I  trotted  about  the  town  with 
him,  showing  him  the  old  gates,  the  church,  and  so  forth, 
I  remember  saying  to  him,  "And  have  you  burned  any 
Protestants?" 

"Oh,  yes!"  says  he,  giving  a  horrible  grin,  "I  have 
roasted  several,  and  eaten  them  afterwards."  And  I 
shrank  back  from  him,  and  his  pale  grinning  face ;  feel- 
ing once  more  that  terror  which  had  come  over  me  when 
I  first  beheld  him.  He  was  a  queer  gentleman ;  he  was 
amused  by  my  simplicity  and  odd  sayings.  He  was 
never  tired  of  having  me  with  him.    He  said  I  should 


THE  TRAVELLERS  49 

be  his  little  English  master;  and  indeed  he  learned  the 
language  surprisingly  quick,  whereas  poor  Madame  de 
Saverne  never  understood  a  word  of  it. 

She  was  very  ill— pale,  with  a  red  spot  on  either  cheek, 
sitting  for  whole  hours  in  silence,  and  looking  round 
frightened,  as  if  a  prey  to  some  terror.  I  have  seen  my 
mother  watching  her,  and  looking  almost  as  scared  as  the 
countess  herself.  At  times,  Madame  could  not  bear  the 
crying  of  the  child,  and  would  order  it  away  from  her. 
At  other  times,  she  would  clutch  it,  cover  it  with  cloaks, 
and  lock  her  door,  and  herself  into  the  chamber  with  her 
infant.  She  used  to  walk  about  the  house  of  a  night.  I 
had  a  little  room  near  mother's,  which  I  occupied  during 
the  holidays,  and  on  Saturdays  and  Sundays,  when  I 
came  over  from  Rye.  I  remember  quite  w^ell  waking  up 
one  night,  and  hearing  ^ladame's  voice  at  mother's  door, 
crying  out,  "Ursula,  Ursula!  quick!  horses!  I  must  go 
away.  He  is  coming ;  I  know  he  is  coming ! "  And  then 
there  M-ere  remonstrances  on  mother's  part,  and  Ma- 
dame's  maid  came  out  of  her  room,  with  entreaties  to  her 
mistress  to  return.  At  the  cry  of  the  child,  the  poor 
mother  would  rush  away  from  whatever  place  she  was 
in,  and  hurry  to  the  infant.  Not  that  she  loved  it.  At 
the  next  moment  she  would  cast  the  child  down  on  the 
bed,  and  go  to  the  window  again,  and  look  to  the  sea. 
For  hours  she  sat  at  that  window,  with  a  curtain  twisted 
round  her,  as  if  hiding  from  some  one.  Ah!  how  have 
I  looked  up  at  that  window  since,  and  the  light  twinkling 
here!  I  wonder  does  the  house  remain  yet?  I  don't  like 
now  to  think  of  the  passionate  grief  I  have  passed 
through,  as  I  looked  up  to  yon  glimmering  lattice. 

It  was  evident  our  poor  visitor  M^as  in  a  deplorable 
condition.     The  apothecary  used  to  come  and  shake  his 


50  DENIS  DUVAL 

head,  and  order  medicine.  The  medicine  did  little  good. 
The  sleeplessness  continued.  She  was  a  prey  to  constant 
fever.  She  would  make  incoherent  answers  to  questions  , 
put  to  her,  laugh  and  weep  at  odd  times  and  places ;  push 
her  meals  away  from  her,  though  they  were  the  best  my 
poor  mother  could  supply;  order  my  grandfather  to  go 
and  sit  in  the  kitchen,  and  not  have  the  impudence  to  sit 
down  before  her;  coax  and  scold  my  mother  by  turns, 
and  take  her  up  very  sharply  when  she  rebuked  me. 
Poor  ]\Iadame  Duval  was  scared  by  her  foster-sister. 
She,  who  ruled  everybody,  became  humble  before  the 
poor  crazy  lady.  I  can  see  them  both  now,  the  lady  in 
white,  listless  and  silent  as  she  would  sit  for  hours  taking 
notice  of  no  one,  and  mother  watching  her  with  terrified 
dark  eyes. 

The  Chevalier  de  la  Motte  had  his  lodgings,  and  came 
and  went  between  his  house  and  ours.  I  thought  he  was 
the  lady's  cousin.  He  used  to  call  himself  her  cousin ;  I 
did  not  know  what  our  pastor  M.  Borel  meant  when  he 
came  to  mother  one  day,  and  said,  "  Fi,  done,  what  a 
pretty  business  thou  hast  commenced,  Madame  Denis — 
thou  an  elder's  daughter  of  our  Church!" 

"  What  business?  "  says  mother. 

"  That  of  harbouring  crime  and  sheltering  iniquity," 
says  he,  naming  the  crime,  viz.  No.  vii.  of  the  Decalogue. 

Being  a  child,  I  did  not  then  understand  the  word  he 
used.  But  as  soon  as  he  had  spoken,  mother,  taking  up 
a  saucepan  of  soup,  cries  out,  "  Get  out  of  there,  Mon- 
sieur, all  pastor  as  you  are,  or  I  will  send  this  soup  at  thy 
ugly  head,  and  the  saucepan  afterwards."  And  she 
looked  so  fierce,  that  I  am  not  surprised  the  little  man 
trotted  off. 

Shortly  afterwards  grandfather  comes  home,  looking 


THE  TRAVELLERS  51 

almost  as  frightened  as  his  commanding  officer,  M. 
Borel.  Grandfather  expostulated  with  his  daughter- 
in-law.  He  was  in  a  great  agitation.  He  wondered  how 
she  could  speak  so  to  the  pastor  of  the  Church.  "All  the 
town,"  says  he,  "  is  talking  about  you  and  this  unhappy 
lady." 

"All  the  town  is  an  old  woman,"  replies  Madame 
Duval,  stamping  her  foot  and  twisting  her  moustache,  I 
might  say,  almost.  "What?  These  white-beaks  of 
French  cry  out  because  I  receive  my  foster-sister? 
What?  It  is  wrong  to  shelter  a  poor  foolish  dying 
woman?  Oh,  the  cowards,  the  cowards!  Listen,  petit- 
papa:  if  you  hear  a  word  said  at  the  club  against  your 
hru,  and  do  not  knock  the  man  down,  I  will."  And, 
faith,  I  think  grandfather's  hru  would  have  kept  her 
word. 

I  fear  my  own  unlucky  simplicity  brought  part  of  the 
opprobrium  down  upon  my  poor  mother,  which  she  had 
now  to  suffer  in  our  French  colony ;  for  one  day  a  neigh- 
bour, Madame  Crochu  by  name,  stepping  in  and  asking, 
"  How  is  your  boarder,  and  how  is  her  cousin  the 
Count?  " — 

"  Madame  Clarisse  is  no  better  than  before,"  said  I 
(shaking  my  head  wisely) ,  "  and  the  gentleman  is  not  a 
count,  and  he  is  not  her  cousin,  Madame  Crochu!  " 

"Oh,  he  is  no  relation?"  says  the  mantuamaker. 
And  that  story  was  quickly  told  over  the  little  town,  and 
when  we  went  to  church  next  Sunday,  M.  Borel  preached 
a  sermon  which  made  all  the  congregation  look  to  us,  and 
poor  mother  sat  boiling  red  like  a  lobster  fresh  out  of 
the  pot.  I  did  not  quite  know  what  I  had  done :  I  know 
what  mother  was  giving  me  for  my  pains,  when  our  poor 
patient,  entering  the  room,  hearing,  I  suppose,  the  hiss- 


52  DENIS  DUVAL 

ing  of  the  stick  (and  never  word  from  me,  I  used  to  bite 
a  bullet,  and  hold  my  tongue),  rushed  into  the  room, 
whisked  the  cane  out  of  mother's  hand,  flung  her  to  the 
other  end  of  the  room  with  a  strength  quite  surprising, 
and  clasped  me  up  in  her  arms  and  began  pacing  up  and 
down  the  room,  and  glaring  at  mother.  "  Strike  your 
own  child,  monster,  monster  I"  says  the  poor  lady. 
"Kneel  down  and  ask  pardon:  or,  as  sure  as  I  am  the 
queen,  I  will  order  your  head  ofFl" 

At  dinner,  she  ordered  me  to  come  and  sit  by  her. 
"  Bishop ! "  she  said  to  grandfather,  "  my  lady  of  honour 
has  been  naughty.  She  whipped  the  little  prince  with  a 
scorpion.  I  took  it  from  her  hand.  Duke !  if  she  does  it 
again,  there  is  a  sword:  I  desire  you  to  cut  the  coun- 
tess's head  off! "  And  then  she  took  a  carving-knife  and 
waved  it,  and  gave  one  of  her  laughs,  which  always  set 
poor  mother  a-crying.  She  used  to  call  us  dukes  and 
princes— I  don't  know  what— poor  soul.  It  was  the 
Chevalier  de  la  JNIotte,  whom  she  generally  styled  duke, 
holding  out  her  hand,  and  saying,  "  Kneel,  sir,  kneel, 
and  kiss  our  royal  hand."  And  M.  de  la  Motte  would 
kneel  with  a  sad  sad  face,  and  go  through  this  hapless 
ceremony.  As  for  grandfather,  who  was  very  bald, 
and  without  his  wig,  being  one  evening  below  her  win- 
dow culling  a  salad  in  his  garden,  she  beckoned  him  to 
her  smiling,  and  when  the  poor  old  man  came,  she  upset 
a  dish  of  tea  over  his  bald  pate  and  said,  "  I  appoint  you 
and  anoint  you  Bishop  of  St.  Denis !  " 

The  woman  Martha,  who  had  been  the  companion  of 
the  Countess  de  Saverne  in  her  unfortunate  flight  from 
home — I  believe  that  since  the  birth  of  her  child  the 
poor  lady  had  never  been  in  her  right  senses  at  all — 
broke  down  under  the  ceaseless  watching  and  care  her 


THE  TRAVELLERS  53 

mistress's  condition  necessitated,  and  I  have  no  doubt 
found  her  duties  yet  more  painful  and  difficult  when  a 
second  mistress,  and  a  very  harsh,  imperious,  and  jealous 
one,  was  set  over  her  in  the  person  of  worthy  Madame 
Duval.  My  mother  was  for  ordering  everybody  who 
would  submit  to  her  orders,  and  entirely  managing  the 
affairs  of  all  those  whom  she  loved.  She  put  the  mother 
to  bed,  and  the  baby  in  her  cradle;  she  prepared  food 
for  both  of  them,  dressed  one  and  the  other  with  an  equal 
affection,  and  loved  that  unconscious  mother  and  child 
with  a  passionate  devotion.  But  she  loved  her  own  way, 
was  jealous  of  all  who  came  between  her  and  the  objects 
of  her  love,  and  no  doubt  led  her  subordinates  an  un- 
comfortable life. 

Three  months  of  Madame  Duval  tired  out  the  Coun- 
tess's Alsatian  maid,  Martha.  She  revolted  and  said  she 
would  go  home.  Mother  said  she  was  an  ungrateful 
wretch,  but  was  delighted  to  get  rid  of  her.  She  always 
averred  the  woman  stole  articles  of  dress,  and  trinkets, 
and  laces,  belonging  to  her  mistress,  before  she  left  us: 
and  in  an  evil  hour  this  wretched  Martha  went  away.  I 
believe  she  really  loved  her  mistress,  and  would  have 
loved  the  child,  had  my  mother's  rigid  arms  not  pushed 
her  from  its  cot.  Poor  little  innocent,  in  what  tragic 
gloom  did  thy  life  begin!  But  an  unseen  Power  was 
guarding  that  helpless  innocence :  and  sure  a  good  angel 
watched  it  in  its  hour  of  danger ! 

So  Madame  Duval  turned  JNIartha  out  of  her  tent  as 
Sarah  thrust  out  Hagar.  Are  women  pleased  after 
doing  these  pretty  tricks?  Your  ladyships  know  best. 
Madame  D.  not  only  thrust  out  Martha,  but  flung  stones 
after  INIartha  all  her  life.  She  went  away,  not  blameless 
perhaps,  but  wounded  to  the   quick  with  ingratitude 


54  DENIS  DUVAL 

which  had  been  shown  to  her,  and  a  link  in  that  mysteri- 
ous chain  of  destiny  which  was  binding  all  these  people 
— me  the  boy  of  seven  years  old;  yonder  little  speech- 
less infant  of  as  many  months;  that  poor  wandering 
lady  bereft  of  reason;  that  dark  inscrutable  com- 
panion of  hers  who  brought  evil  with  him  wherever  he 
came. 

From  Dungeness  to  Boulogne  is  but  six-and-thirty 
miles,  and  our  boats,  when  war  was  over,  were  constantly 
making  journeys  there.  Even  in  war-time  the  little 
harmless  craft  left  each  other  alone,  and,  I  suspect,  car- 
ried on  a  great  deal  of  peaceable  and  fraudulent  trade 
together.  Grandfather  had  share  of  a  "  fishing  "  boat 
with  one  Thomas  Gregson  of  Lydd.  When  Martha  was 
determined  to  go,  one  of  our  boats  was  readj^  to  take  her 
to  the  place  from  whence  she  came,  or  transfer  her  to  a 
French  boat,  which  would  return  into  its  own  harbour.^ 
She  was  carried  back  to  Boulogne  and  landed.  I  know 
the  day  full  well  from  a  document  now  before  me,  of 
which  the  dismal  writing  and  signing  were  occasioned  by 
that  very  landing. 

As  she  stepped  out  from  the  pier  (a  crowd  of  people, 
no  doubt,  tearing  the  poor  wretch's  slender  luggage  from 
her  to  carry  it  to  the  Customs)  almost  the  first  person  on 
whom  the  woman's  eyes  fell  was  her  master  the  Count 
de  Saverne.  He  had  actually  only  reached  the  place  on 
that  very  day,  and  walked  the  pier,  looking  towards 
England,  as  many  a  man  has  done  from  the  same  spot, 
when  he  saw  the  servant  of  his  own  wife  come  up  the  side 
of  the  pier. 

He  rushed  to  her,  as  she  started  back  screaming  and 

^  There  were  points  for  which  our  boats  used  to  make,  and  meet  the 
French  lioats  when  not  disturbed,  and  do  a  great  deal  more  business  than  I 
could  then  understand. — D.  D. 


THE  TRAVELLERS  55 

almost  fainting,  but  the  crowd  of  beggars  behind  her 
prevented  her  retreat.  "  The  child, — does  the  child 
live?"  asked  the  poor  Count,  in  the  German  tongue, 
which  both  spoke. 

The  child  was  well.  Thank  God,  thank  God!  The 
poor  father's  heart  was  freed  from  that  terror,  then!  I 
can  fancy  the  gentleman  saying,  "  Your  mistress  is  at 
Winchelsea,  with  her  foster-sister?" 

"  Yes,  M.  le  Comte." 

"  The  Chevalier  de  la  Motte  is  always  at  Winchel- 
sea?" 

"  Ye— oh,  no,  no,  M.  le  Comte! " 

"  Silence,  liar!  He  made  the  journey  with  her.  They 
stopped  at  the  same  inns.  M.  le  Brun,  merchant,  aged 
34;  his  sister,  Madame  Dubois,  aged  24,  with  a  female 
infant  in  her  arms,  and  a  maid,  left  this  port,  on  20th 
April,  in  the  English  fishing-boat  '  Mary,'  of  Rye.  Be- 
fore embarking  they  slept  at  the  '  Ecu  de  France.'  I 
knew  I  should  find  them." 

"  By  all  that  is  sacred,  I  never  left  Madame  once  dur- 
ing the  voyage!" 

"  Never  till  to-day?  Enough.  How  was  the  fishing- 
boat  called  which  brought  you  to  Boulogne?" 

One  of  the  boat's  crew  was  actually  walking  behind 
the  unhappy  gentleman  at  the  time,  with  some  packet 
which  Martha  had  left  in  it.^  It  seemed  as  if  fate  was 
determined  upon  suddenly  and  swiftly  bringing  the 
criminal  to  justice,  and  under  the  avenging  sword  of 
the  friend  he  had  betrayed.  He  bade  the  man  follow  him 
to  the  hotel.  There  should  be  a  good  drink-money  for 
him. 

'  I  had  this  from  the  woman  herself,  whom  we  saw  when  we  paid 
our  visit  to  Lorraine  and  Alsace  in  1814. 


56  DENIS  DUVAL 

"  Does  he  treat  her  well? "  asked  the  poor  gentleman, 
as  he  and  the  maid  walked  on. 

"Dame!  No  mother  can  be  more  gentle  than  he  is 
with  her! "  Where  Martha  erred  was  in  not  saying  that 
her  mistress  was  utterly  deprived  of  reason,  and  had  been 
so  almost  since  the  child's  birth.  She  owned  that  she 
had  attended  her  lady  to  the  cathedral  when  the  Coun- 
tess and  the  infant  were  christened,  and  that  M.  de  la 
Motte  was  also  present.  "  He  has  taken  body  and  soul 
too,"  no  doubt  the  miserable  gentleman  thought. 

He  happened  to  alight  at  the  very  hotel  where  the  fu- 
gitives of  whom  he  was  in  search  had  had  their  quarters 
four  months  before  (so  that  for  two  months  at  least 
poor  M.  de  Saverne  must  have  lain  ill  at  Nanci  at  the 
commencement  of  his  journey) .  The  boatman,  the  lug- 
gage people,  and  Martha  the  servant  followed  the  Count 
to  this  hotel;  and  the  femme-de-chambre  remembered 
how  Madame  Dubois  and  her  brother  had  been  at  the 
hotel — a  poor  sick  lady,  who  sat  up  talking  the  whole 
night.  Her  brother  slept  in  the  right  wing  across  the 
court.  Monsieur  has  the  lady's  room.  How  that  child 
did  cry!  See,  the  windows  look  on  the  port.  "  Yes,  this 
was  the  lady's  room." 

"And  the  child  lay  on  which  side? " 

"  On  that  side." 

M.  de  Saverne  looked  at  the  place  which  the  woman 
pointed  out,  stooped  his  head  towards  the  pillow,  and 
cried  as  if  his  heart  would  break.  The  fisherman's  tears 
rolled  down  too  over  his  brown  face  and  hands.  Le 
pauvre  homme,  le  jmuvre  homme  ! 

"  Come  into  my  sitting-room  with  me,"  he  said  to 
the  fisherman.  The  man  followed  him  and  shut  the 
door. 


THE  TRAVELLERS  57 

His  burst  of  feeling  was  now  over.  He  became  en- 
tirely calm. 

"  You  know  the  house  from  which  this  woman  came, 

at  Winchelsea,  in  England? " 

"  Yes." 

"  You  took  a  gentleman  and  a  lady  thither?" 

"  Yes." 

"  You  remember  the  man? " 

"  Perfectly." 

"  For  thirty  louis  will  you  go  to  sea  to-night,  take  a 
passenger,  and  deliver  a  letter  to  M.  de  la  Motte?" 

The  man  agreed:  and  I  take  out  from  my  secretary 
that  letter,  in  its  tawny  ink  of  fifty  years'  date,  and  read 
it  with  a  strange  interest  always: — 

"  To   the   Chevalier    Francois    Joseph    de    la    Motte,    at 
Winchelsea,  in  England 

'"  I  KNEW  I  should  find  you.  I  never  doubted  where  you  were. 
But  for  a  sharp  illness  which  I  made  at  Nanci,  I  should  have 
been  with  you  two  months  earlier.  After  what  has  occurred 
between  us,  I  know  this  invitation  will  be  to  you  as  a  command, 
and  that  you  will  hasten  as  you  did  to  my  rescue  from  the 
English  bayonets  at  Hastenbeck.  Between  us,  M.  le  Chevalier, 
it  is  to  life  or  death.  I  depend  upon  you  to  communicate  this 
to  no  one,  and  to  follow  the  messenger,  who  will  bring  you  to  me. 

"  Count  de  Saverne." 

This  letter  was  brought  to  our  house  one  evening  as 
we  sat  in  the  front  shop.  I  had  the  child  on  my  knee, 
which  would  have  no  other  playfellow  but  me.  The 
Countess  was  pretty  quiet  that  evening— the  night 
calm,  and  the  windows  open.  Grandfather  was  reading 
his  book.  The  Countess  and  M.  de  la  ]Motte  were  at 
cards,  though,  poor  thing,  she  could  scarce  play  for  ten 


58  DENIS  DUVAL 

minutes  at  a  time;  and  there  comes  a  knock,  at  which 
grandfather  puts  down  his  book.^ 

"All's  well,"  says  he.  "Entrez.  Comment!  c'est 
vous,  Bidois?  " 

"  Oui,  c'est  bien  moi,  patron!"  says  Mons.  Bidois,  a 
great  fellow  in  boots  and  petticoat,  with  an  eelskin  queue 
hanging  down  to  his  heels.  "  C'est  la  le  petit  du  pauv' 
Jean  Louis?    Est  i  genti  le  pti  patron!  " 

And  as  he  looks  at  me,  he  rubs  a  hand  across  his  nose. 

At  this  moment  Madame  la  Comtesse  gave  one,  two, 
three  screams,  a  laugh,  and  cries — "Ah,  c'est  mon  mari 
qui  revient  de  la  guerre.  II  est  la — a  la  croisee.  Bon 
jour,  M.  le  Comte!  Bon  jour.  Vous  avez  une  petite 
fille  bien  laide,  bien  laide,  que  je  n'aime  pas  du  tout,  pas 
du  tout,  pas  du  tout!  He  is  there!  I  saw  him  at  the 
window.  There!  there!  Hide  me  from  him.  He  will 
kill  me,  he  will  kill  me ! "  she  cried. 

"  Calmez-vous,  Clarisse,"  says  the  Chevalier,  who  was 
weary,  no  doubt,  of  the  poor  lady's  endless  outcries  and 
follies. 

"Calmez-vous,  ma  fille!"  sings  out  mother,  from  the 
inner  room,  where  she  was  washing. 

"Ah,  Monsieur  is  the  Chevalier  de  la  Motte?"  says 
Bidois. 

"Apres  Monsieur,"  says  the  Chevalier,  looking 
haughtily  up  from  the  cards. 

"  In  that  case,  I  have  a  letter  for  M.  le  Chevalier." 
And  the  sailor  handed  to  the  Chevalier  de  la  Motte  that 
letter  which  I  have  translated,  the  ink  of  which  was  black 
and  wet  then,  though  now  it  is  sere  and  faded. 

This  Chevalier  had  faced  death  and  danger  in  a  score 

*  There  was  a  particular  knock,   as   I   learned   later,   in   use  among  grand- 
papa's private  friends,  and  Mons.  Bidois  no  doubt  had  this  signal. 


THE  TRAVELLERS  59 

of  daredevil  expeditions.  At  the  game  of  steel  and  lead 
there  was  no  cooler  performer.  He  put  the  letter  which 
he  had  received  quietly  into  his  pocket,  finished  his  game 
with  the  Countess,  and  telHng  Bidois  to  follow  him  to  his 
lodgings,  took  leave  of  the  company.  I  daresay  the 
poor  Countess  built  up  a  house  with  the  cards,  and  took 
little  more  notice.  INIother,  going  to  close  the  shutters, 
said,  "  It  was  droll,  that  little  man,  the  friend  to  Bidois, 
was  still  standing  in  the  street."  You  see  we  had  all  sorts 
of  droll  friends.  Seafaring  men,  speaking  a  jargon  of 
English,  French,  Dutch,  were  constantly  dropping  in 
upon  us.  Dear  heaven!  when  I  think  in  what  a  com- 
pany I  have  lived,  and  what  a  galere  I  rowed  in,  is  it  not 
a  wonder  that  I  did  not  finish  where  some  of  my  friends 
did? 

I  made  a  drole  de  metier  at  this  time.  I  was  set  by 
grandfather  to  learn  his  business.  Our  apprentice 
taught  me  the  commencement  of  the  noble  art  of  wig- 
weaving.  As  soon  as  I  was  tall  enough  to  stand  to  a 
gentleman's  nose  I  was  promised  to  be  ijromoted  to  be  a 
shaver.  I  trotted  on  mother's  errands  with  her  band- 
boxes, and  what  not ;  and  I  was  made  dry-nurse  to  poor 
Madame's  baby,  who,  as  I  said,  loved  me  most  of  all  in 
the  house;  and  who  would  put  her  little  dimpled  hands 
out  and  crow  with  delight  to  see  me.  The  first  day  I 
went  out  with  this  little  baby  in  a  little  wheel-chair  mo- 
ther got  for  her  the  town  boys  made  rare  fun  of  me :  and 
I  had  to  fight  one,  as  poor  little  Agnes  sat  sucking  her 
little  thumb  in  her  chair,  I  suppose ;  and  whilst  the  battle 
was  going  on,  who  should  come  up  but  Doctor  Barnard, 
the  English  rector  of  Saint  Philip's,  who  lent  us  French 
Protestants  the  nave  of  his  church  for  our  service,  whilst 
our  tumble-down  old  church  was  being  mended.    Doctor 


60  DENIS  DUVAL 

Barnard  (for  a  reason  which  I  did  not  know  at  that  time, 
but  which  I  am  compelled  to  own  now  was  a  good  one) 
did  not  like  grandfather,  nor  mother,  nor  our  family. 
You  may  be  sure  our  people  abused  him  in  return.  He 
was  called  a  haughty  priest— a  vilain  beeg-veeg,  mother 
used  to  say,  in  her  French-English.  And  perhaps  one 
of  the  causes  of  her  dislike  to  him  was,  that  his  hig  vig 
—a  fine  cauliflower  it  was— was  powdered  at  another 
barber's.  Well,  whilst  the  battle  royal  was  going  on 
between  me  and  Tom  Caffin  (dear  heart!  how  well  I 
remember  the  fellow,  though— let  me  see — it  is  fifty- 
four  years  since  we  punched  each  other's  little  noses), 
Doctor  Barnard  walks  up  to  us  boys  and  stops  the  fight- 
ing. "You  little  rogues!  I'll  have  you  all  put  in  the 
stocks  and  whipped  bj^  my  beadle,"  says  the  Doctor,  who 
was  a  magistrate  too:  "as  for  this  little  French  barber, 
he  is  always  in  mischief." 

"  They  laughed  at  me  and  called  me  Dry-nurse,  and 
wanted  to  upset  the  little  cart,  sir,  and  I  wouldn't  bear 
it.  And  it's  my  duty  to  protect  a  poor  child  that  can't 
help  itself,"  said  I,  very  stoutly.  "  Her  mother  is  ill. 
Her  nurse  has  run  away,  and  she  has  nobody— nobody 
to  protect  her  but  me— and  '  Notre  Pere  qui  est  aux 
cieux ; ' "  and  I  held  up  my  little  hand  as  grandfather 
used  to  do;  "  and  if  those  boys  hurt  the  child  I  will  fight 
for  her." 

The  Doctor  rubbed  his  hand  across  his  eyes ;  and  felt 
in  his  pocket  and  gave  me  a  dollar. 

"And  come  to  see  us  all  at  the  Rectory,  child,"  Mrs. 
Barnard  says,  who  was  with  the  Doctor;  and  she  looked 
at  the  little  baby  that  was  in  its  cot,  and  said,  "Poor 
thing,  poor  thing! " 

And  the  Doctor,  turning  round  to  the  EngHsh  boys, 


THE  TRAVELLERS  61 

still  holding  me  by  the  hand,  said,  "  Mind,  all  you  boys! 
If  I  hear  of  you  being  such  cowards  again  as  to  strike 
this  little  lad  for  doing  his  duty,  I  will  have  you  whipped 
by  my  beadle,  as  sure  as  my  name  is  Thomas  Barnard. 
Shake  hands,  you  Thomas  CafRn,  with  the  French  boy ; " 
and  I  said,  "  I  would  shake  hands  or  fight  it  out  when- 
ever Tom  Caffin  liked ; "  and  so  took  my  place  as  pony 
again,  and  pulled  my  little  cart  down  Sandgate. 

These  stories  got  about  amongst  the  townspeople,  and 
fishermen,  and  seafaring  folk,  I  suppose,  and  the  people 
of  our  little  circle ;  and  they  were  the  means,  God  helj) 
me,  of  bringing  me  in  those  very  early  days  a  legacy 
which  I  have  still.  You  see,  the  day  after  Bidois,  the 
French  fisherman,  paid  us  a  visit,  as  I  was  pulling  my 
little  cart  up  the  hill  to  a  little  farmer's  house  where 
grandfather  and  a  partner  of  his  had  some  pigeons,  of 
which  I  was  very  fond  as  a  boy,  I  met  a  little  dark  man 
whose  face  I  cannot  at  all  recall  to  my  mind,  but  who 
spoke  French  and  German  to  me  like  grandfather  and 
mother.  "That  is  the  child  of  Madame  von  Zabern?" 
says  he,  trembling  very  much. 

"Ja,  Herr!"  says  the  little  boy 

O  Agnes,  Agnes!  How  the  years  roll  away!  What 
strange  events  have  befallen  us :  what  passionate  griefs 
have  we  had  to  suffer :  what  a  merciful  heaven  has  pro- 
tected us,  since  that  day  when  your  father  knelt  over  the 
little  car,  in  which  his  child  lay  sleeping !  I  have  the  pic- 
ture in  my  mind  now.  I  see  a  winding  road  leading 
down  to  one  of  the  gates  of  our  town;  the  blue  marsh- 
land, and  yonder,  across  the  marsh,  Rye  towers  and 
gables;  a  great  silver  sea  stretching  beyond;  and  that 
dark  man's  figure  stooping  and  looking  at  the  child 
asleep.    He  never  kissed  the  infant  or  touched  her.     I 


62  DENIS  DUVAL 

remember  It  woke  smiling,  and  held  out  its  little  arms, 
and  he  turned  away  with  a  sort  of  groan. 

Bidois,  the  French  fisherman  I  spoke  of  as  having 
been  to  see  us  on  ijie  night  before,  came  up  here  with  an- 
other companion,  an  Englishman  I  think. 

"Ah!  we  seek  for  you  everywhere.  Monsieur  le 
Comte,"  says  he.    "  The  tide  serves  and  it  is  full  time." 

"  Monsieur  le  Chevalier  is  on  board? "  says  the  Count 
de  Saverne. 

"  II  est  bien  la,"  says  the  fisherman.  And  they  went 
down  the  hill  through  the  gate,  without  turning  to  look 
back. 

Mother  was  quite  quiet  and  gentle  all  that  day.  It 
seemed  as  if  something  scared  her.  The  poor  Countess 
prattled  and  laughed,  or  cried  in  her  unconscious  way. 
But  grandfather  at  evening  prayer  that  night  making 
the  exposition  rather  long,  mother  stamped  her  foot,  and 
said,  "Assez  bavarde  comme  9a,  mon  pere,"  and  sank 
back  in  her  chair  with  her  apron  over  her  face. 

She  remained  all  next  day  very  silent,  crying  often, 
and  reading  in  our  great  German  Bible.  She  was  kind 
to  me  that  day.  I  remember  her  saying,  in  her  deep 
voice,  "  Thou  art  a  brave  boy,  Denikin."  It  was  seldom 
she  patted  my  head  so  softly.  That  night  our  patient 
was  very  wild;  and  laughing  a  great  deal,  and  singing 
so  that  the  people  would  stop  in  the  streets  to  listen. 

Doctor  Barnard  again  met  me  that  day,  dragging  my 
little  carriage,  and  he  fetched  me  into  the  Rectory  for 
the  first  time,  and  gave  me  cake  and  wine,  and  the  book 
of  the  "Arabian  Nights," and  the  ladies  admired  the  little 
baby,  and  said  it  was  a  pity  it  was  a  little  Papist,  and  the 
Doctor  hoped  I  was  not  going  to  turn  Papist,  and  I  said, 
"  Oh,  never."    Neither  mother  nor  I  liked  that  darkling 


THE  TRAVELLERS  63 

Roman  Catholic  clergyman  who  was  fetched  over  from 
our  neighbours  at  the  Priory  by  M.  de  la  INIotte.  The 
Chevalier  was  very  firm  himself  in  that  religion.  I  little 
thought  then  that  I  was  to  see  him  on  a  day  when  his 
courage  and  his  faith  were  both  to  have  an  awful  trial. 

...  I  was  reading  then  in  this  fine  book  of  Monsieur 
Galland  which  the  Doctor  had  given  me.  I  had  no  or- 
ders to  go  to  bed,  strange  to  say,  and  I  dare  say  was 
peeping  into  the  cave  of  the  Forty  Thieves  along  with 
Master  Ali  Baba,  when  I  heard  the  clock  whirring  pre- 
viously to  striking  twelve,  and  steps  coming  rapidly  up 
our  empty  street. 

Mother  started  up,  looking  quite  haggard,  and  undid 
the  bolt  of  the  door. 

"  C'est  lui!"  says  she,  with  her  eyes  starting,  and  the 
Chevalier  de  la  Motte  came  in,  looking  as  white  as  a 
corpse. 

Poor  Madame  de  Saverne  upstairs,  awakened  by  the 
striking  clock  perhaps,  began  to  sing  overhead,  and  the 
Chevalier  gave  a  great  start,  looking  more  ghastly  than 
before,  as  my  mother  with  an  awful  face  looked  at  him. 

"  II  I'a  voulu,"  says  M.  de  la  Motte,  hanging  down  his 
head;  and  again  poor  Madame's  crazy  voice  began  to 
sing. 

Heport 

"  On  the  27th  June  of  this  year,  1769,  the  Comte  de 
Saverne  arrived  at  Boulogne-sur-Mer,  and  lodged  at  the 
Ecu  de  France,  where  also  was  staying  M.  le  Marquis 
du  Quesne  Menneville,  Chef  d'Escadre  of  the  Naval 
Armies  of  his  Majesty.  The  Comte  de  Saverne  was 
previously  unknown  to  the  Marquis  du  Quesne,  but 
recalling   to   M.    du   Quesne's   remembrance   the   fact 


64  DENIS  DUVAL 

that  his  illustrious  ancestor  the  Admiral  Duquesne 
professed  the  Reformed  religion,  as  did  M.  de  Saverne 
himself,  M.  de  Saverne  entreated  the  Marquis  du 
Quesne  to  be  his  friend  in  a  rencontre  which  deplorable 
circumstances  rendered  unavoidable. 

"At  the  same  time,  ^1.  de  Saverne  stated  to  M.  le 
Marquis  du  Quesne  the  cause  of  his  quarrel  with  the 
Chevalier  Francis  Joseph  de  la  Motte,  late  officer  of 
the  regiment  of  Soubise,  at  present  residing  in  Eng- 
land in  the  town  of  Winchelsea,  in  the  county  of  Sus- 
sex. The  statement  made  by  the  Comte  de  Sa- 
verne was  such  as  to  convince  M.  du  Quesne  of  the 
Count's  right  to  exact  a  reparation  from  the  Chevalier 
de  la  Motte. 

"A  boat  was  despatched  on  the  night  of  the  29th 
June,  with  a  messenger  bearing  the  note  of  M.  le  Comte 
de  Saverne.  And  in  this  boat  M.  de  la  Motte  returned 
from  England. 

"  The  undersigned  Comte  de  Berigny,  in  garrison  at 
Boulogne,  and  an  acquaintance  of  M.  de  la  Motte,  con- 
sented to  serve  as  his  witness  in  the  meeting  with  M. 
de  Saverne. 

"  The  meeting  took  place  at  seven  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing, on  the  sands  at  half  a  league  from  the  port  of 
Boulogne:  and  the  weapons  chosen  were  pistols.  Both 
gentlemen  were  perfectly  calm  and  collected,  as  one 
might  expect  from  officers  distinguished  in  the  King's 
service,  who  had  faced  the  enemies  of  France  as  com- 
rades together. 

"  Before  firing,  M.  le  Chevalier  de  la  Motte  advanced 
four  steps,  and  holding  his  pistol  down,  and  laying  his 
hand  on  his  heart,  he  said, — '  I  swear  on  the  faith  of  a 
Christian,  and  the  honour  of  a  gentleman,  that  I  am 


THE  TRAVELLERS  65 

innocent  of  the  charge  laid  against  me  by  Monsieur  de 
Saverne.' 

"  The  Comte  de  Saverne  said, — '  M.  le  ChevaHer  de  la 
jMotte,  I  have  made  no  charge;  and  if  I  had,  a  lie  costs 
you  nothing.' 

"  JVI.  de  la  Motte,  saluting  the  witnesses  courteously, 
and  with  grief  rather  than  anger  visible  upon  his  coun- 
tenance, returned  to  his  line  on  the  sand  which  was 
marked  out  as  the  place  where  he  was  to  stand,  at  a 
distance  of  ten  paces  from  his  adversary. 

"At  the  signal  being  given  both  fired  simultaneously. 
The  ball  of  M.  de  Saverne  grazed  M.  de  la  Motte's  side- 
curl,  while  his  ball  struck  M.  de  Saverne  in  the  right 
breast.    M.  de  Saverne  stood  a  moment,  and  fell. 

"  The  seconds,  the  surgeon,  and  M.  de  la  Motte  ad- 
vanced towards  the  fallen  gentleman;  and  M.  de  la 
Motte,  holding  up  his  hand,  again  said,  — '  I  take  heaven 
to  witness  the  person  is  innocent.' 

"  The  Comte  de  Saverne  seemed  to  be  about  to  speak. 
He  lifted  himself  from  the  sand,  supporting  himself  on 
one  arm:  but  all  he  said  was,  —  'You,  you — '  and  a 
great  issue  of  blood  rushed  from  his  throat,  and  he  fell 
back,  and,  with  a  few  convulsions,  died. 

(Signed)      "Marquis  du  Quesne  Menneville, 
"Chef  df  Escadre  auoo  Armies  Navales  du  Roy. 
"  Comte  de  Berigny, 

"Brigadier  de  Cavalerie." 

burgeon's:  Krport 

"  I,  Jean  Baptiste  Drouot,  Surgeon-Major  of  the 
Regiment  Royal  Cravate,  in  garrison  at  Boulogne-sur- 
Mer,  certify  that  I  was  present  at  the  meeting  which 


66  DENIS  DUVAL 

ended  so  lamentably.  The  death  of  the  gentleman  who 
succumbed  was  immediate ;  the  ball,  passing  to  the  right 
of  the  middle  of  the  breastbone,  penetrated  the  lung 
and  the  large  artery  supplying  it  with  blood,  and  caused 
death  by  immediate  suffocation." 


CHAPTER  IV 

OUT   OF   THE  DEPTHS 

THAT  last  night  which  he  was  to  pass  upon  earth, 
M.  de  Saverne  spent  in  a  httle  tavern  in  Winchel- 
sea,  frequented  by  fishing  people,  and  known  to  Bidois, 
who,  even  during  the  war,  was  in  the  constant  habit  of 
coming  to  England  upon  errands  in  which  Mons. 
Grandpapa  was  very  much  interested— precentor,  elder, 
perruquier  as  he  was. 

The  Count  de  Saverne  had  had  some  talk  with  the 
fisherman  during  the  voyage  from  Boulogne,  and  more 
conversation  took  place  on  this  last  night,  when  the 
Count  took  Bidois  partly  into  his  confidence:  and,  with- 
out mentioning  the  precise  cause  of  his  quarrel  with  M. 
de  la  Motte,  said  that  it  was  inevitable;  that  the  man 
was  a  villain  who  ought  not  to  be  allowed  to  pollute  the 
earth;  and  that  no  criminal  was  ever  more  righteously 
executed  than  this  chevalier  would  be  on  the  morrow, 
when  it  was  agreed  that  the  two  were  to  meet. 

The  meeting  would  have  taken  place  on  that  very 
night,  but  M.  de  la  Motte  demanded,  as  indeed  he  had  a 
right  to  do,  some  hours  for  the  settlement  of  his  own  af- 
fairs; and  preferred  to  fight  on  French  ground  rather 
than  English,  as  the  survivor  of  the  quarrel  would  be 
likely  to  meet  with  very  rough  treatment  in  this  country. 

La  Motte  betook  himself  then  to  arranging  his  papers. 
As  for  the  Count  de  Saverne,  he  said  all  his  dispositions 

67 


68  DENIS  DUVAL 

were  made.  A  dowry, — that  which  his  wife  brought — 
would  go  to  her  child.  His  own  property  was  devised 
to  his  own  relations,  and  he  could  give  the  child  nothing. 
He  had  only  a  few  pieces  in  his  purse,  and,  "  Tenez," 
says  he,  "  this  watch.  Should  anything  befall  me,  I 
desire  it  may  be  given  to  the  little  boy  who  saved 
my— that  is,  her  child."  And  the  voice  of  M.  le  Comte 
broke  as  he  said  these  words,  and  the  tears  ran  over  his 
fingers.  And  the  seaman  wept  too,  as  he  told  the  story 
to  me  years  after,  nor  were  some  of  mine  wanting,  I 
think,  for  that  poor  heart-broken,  wretched  man,  writh- 
ing in  helpless  agony,  as  the  hungry  sand  drank  his 
blood.  Assuredly,  the  guilt  of  that  blood  was  on  thy 
head,  Francis  de  la  Motte. 

The  watch  is  ticking  on  the  table  before  me  as  I 
write.  It  has  been  my  companion  for  half  a  century. 
I  remember  my  childish  delight  when  Bidois  brought  it 
to  me,  and  told  my  mother  the  tale  of  the  meeting  of  the 
two  gentlemen. 

"  You  see  her  condition,"  M.  de  la  Motte  said  to  my 
mother  at  this  time.  "We  are  separated  for  ever,  as 
hopelessly  as  though  one  or  other  were  dead.  My  hand 
slew  her  husband.  Perhaps  my  fault  destroyed  her 
reason.  I  transmit  misfortunes  to  those  I  love  and 
would  serve.  Shall  I  marry  her  ?  I  will  if  you  think 
I  can  serve  her.  As  long  as  a  guinea  remains  to  me, 
I  will  halve  it  with  her.  I  have  but  very  few  left  now. 
My  fortune  has  crumbled  under  my  hands,  as  have  my 
friendships,  my  once  bright  prospects,  my  ambitions. 
I  am  a  doomed  man:  somehow,  I  drag  down  those  who 
love  me  into  my  doom." 

And  so  indeed  there  was  a  Cain  mark,  as  it  were,  on 
this  unhappy  man.     He  did  bring  wreck  and  ruin  on 


OUT    OF    THE    DEPTHS  69 

those  who  loved  him.  He  was  as  a  lost  soul,  I  somehow 
think,  whose  tortures  had  begun  already.  Predestined 
to  evil,  to  crime,  to  gloom;  but  now  and  again  some  one 
took  pity  upon  this  poor  wretch,  and  amongst  those  w^io 
pitied  him  was  my  stern  mother. 

And  here  I  may  relate  how  it  happened  that  I 
"  saved  "  the  child,  for  which  act  j^oor  INI.  de  Saverne 
rewarded  me.  Bidois  no  doubt  told  that  story  to  M. 
le  Comte  in  the  course  of  their  gloomy  voyage.  Mrs. 
JSIartha,  the  Countess's  attendant,  had  received  or  taken 
leave  of  absence  one  night,  after  putting  the  child  and 
the  poor  lady,  who  was  no  better  than  a  child,  to  bed. 
I  went  to  my  bed,  and  to  sleep  as  boys  sleep;  and  I 
forget  what  business  called  away  my  mother  likewise, 
but  when  she  came  back  to  look  for  her  poor  Biche  and 
the  infant  in  its  cradle — both  were  gone. 

I  have  seen  the  incomparable  Siddons,  in  the  play, 
as,  white  and  terrified,  she  passed  through  the  darkened 
hall  after  King  Duncan's  murder.  ]My  mother's  face 
wore  a  look  of  terror  to  the  full  as  tragical,  when,  start- 
ing up  from  my  boyish  sleep,  I  sat  up  in  my  bed  and 
saw  her.  She  was  almost  beside  herself  with  terror. 
The  poor  insane  lady  and  her  child  were  gone — who 
could  say  where?  Into  the  marshes — into  the  sea — into 
the  darkness— it  was  impossible  to  say  whither  the 
Countess  had  fled. 

"  We  must  get  up,  my  boy,  and  find  them,"  says 
mother,  in  a  hoarse  voice;  and  I  was  sent  over  to  Mr. 
Bliss's  the  grocer,  in  East  Street,  where  the  Chevalier 
lived,  and  M^here  I  found  him  sitting  (with  two  priests, 
by  the  w^ay,  guests,  no  doubt,  of  INIr.  Weston,  at  the 
Priory),  and  all  these,  and  mother,  on  her  side,  with 
me  following  her,  went  out  to  look  for  the  fugitives. 


70  DENIS  DUVAL 

We  went  by  pairs,  taking  different  roads.  Mother's 
was  the  right  one  as  it  appeared,  for  we  had  not  walked 
many  minutes,  when  we  saw  a  white  figure  coming 
towards  us,  glimmering  out  of  the  dark,  and  heard  a 
voice  singing. 

"Ah,  mon  Dieu ! "  says  mother,  and  "  Gott  sey  dank," 
and  I  know  not  what  exclamations  of  gratitude  and  re- 
lief.   It  was  the  voice  of  the  Countess. 

As  we  came  up,  she  knew  us  with  our  light,  and  began 
to  imitate,  in  her  crazy  way,  the  cry  of  the  watchman, 
whom  the  poor  sleepless  soul  had  often  heard  under  the 
windows.  "Past  twelve  o'clock,  a  starlight  night!"  she 
sang,  and  gave  one  of  her  sad  laughs. 

When  we  came  up  to  her,  we  found  her  in  a  white 
wrapper,  her  hair  flowing  down  her  back  and  over  her 
poor  pale  face,  and  again  she  sang,  "Past  twelve 
o'clock." 

The  child  was  not  with  her.  Mother  trembled  in  every 
limb.  The  lantern  shook  so  in  her  hand  I  thought  she 
would  drop  it. 

She  put  it  down  on  the  ground.  She  took  her  shawl 
oiF  her  back,  and  covered  the  poor  lady  with  it,  who 
smiled  in  her  childish  way,  and  said,  "  C'est  bon;  c'est 
chaud  9a;  ah  !  que  c'est  bien!" 

As  I  chanced  to  look  down  at  the  lady's  feet,  I  saw 
one  of  them  was  naked.  Mother,  herself  in  a  dreadful 
agitation,  embraced  and  soothed  Madame  de  Saverne. 
"  Tell  me,  my  angel,  tell  me,  my  love,  where  is  the 
child?"  says  mother,  almost  fainting. 

"  The  child,  what  child?  That  little  brat  who  always 
cries?  I  know  nothing  about  children,"  says  the  poor 
thing.  "Take  me  to  my  bed  this  moment,  madam! 
How  dare  you  bring  me  into  the  streets  with  naked 
feet!" 


OUT    OF    THE    DEPTHS  71 

"  Where  have  you  been  walking,  my  dear? "  says  poor 
mother,  trying  to  soothe  her. 

"I  have  been  to  Great  Saverne.  I  wore  a  domino. 
I  knew  the  coachman  quite  well,  though  he  was  muf- 
fled up  all  but  his  nose.  I  was  presented  to  Monseigneur 
the  Cardinal.  I  made  him  such  a  curtsey— like  this. 
Oh,  my  foot  hurts  me! " 

She  often  rambled  about  this  ball  and  play,  and 
hummed  snatches  of  tunes  and  little  phrases  of  dia- 
logue, which  she  may  have  heard  there.  Indeed,  I  be- 
lieve it  was  the  only  play  and  ball  the  poor  thing  ever 
saw  in  her  life;  her  brief  life,  her  wretched  life.  'Tis 
pitiful  to  think  how  unhappy  it  was.  When  I  recall  it, 
it  tears  my  heart-strings  somehow,  as  it  doth  to  see  a 
child  in  pain. 

As  she  held  up  the  poor  bleeding  foot,  I  saw  that  the 
edge  of  her  dress  was  all  wet,  and  covered  with  sand. 

"  Mother,  mother! "  said  I,  "  she  has  been  to  the  sea! " 

"Have  you  been  to  the  sea,  Clarisse?"  asks  mother. 

"J'ai  ete  au  bal:  j'ai  danse;  j'ai  chante.  J'ai  bien 
reconnu  mon  cocher.  J'ai  ete  au  bal  chez  le  Cardinal. 
But  you  must  not  tell  M.  de  Saverne.  Oh,  no,  you 
mustn't  tell  him!" 

A  sudden  thought  came  to  me.  And,  whenever  I 
remember  it,  my  heart  is  full  of  thankfulness  to  the 
gracious  Giver  of  all  good  thoughts.  Madame,  of  whom 
I  was  not  afraid,  and  who  sometimes  was  amused  by 
my  prattle,  would  now  and  then  take  a  walk  accom- 
panied by  Martha  her  maid,  who  held  the  infant,  and 
myself,  who  liked  to  draw  it  in  its  little  carriage.  We 
used  to  walk  down  to  the  shore,  and  there  was  a  rock 
there,  on  which  the  poor  lady  would  sit  for  hours. 

"  You  take  her  home,  mother,"  says  I,  all  in  a  tremble. 


72  DENIS  DUVAL 

"You  give  me  the  lantern,  and  I'll  go— I'll  go"— I 
was  off  before  I  said  where.  Down  I  went,  through 
Westgate ;  down  I  ran  along  the  road  towards  the  place 
I  guessed  at.  When  I  had  gone  a  few  hundred  yards, 
I  saw  in  the  road  something  white.  It  was  tlie  Coun- 
tess s  slipper,  that  she  had  left  there.  I  knew  she  had 
gone  that  way. 

I  got  down  to  the  shore,  running,  running  with  all 
my  little  might.  The  moon  had  risen  by  this  time,  shin- 
ing gloriously  over  a  great  silver  sea.  A  tide  of  silver 
was  pouring  in  over  the  sand.  Yonder  was  that  rock 
where  we  often  had  sat.  The  infant  was  sleeping  on  it 
under  the  stars  unconscious.  He,  Who  loves  little  chil- 
dren, had  watched  over  it  ....  I  scarce  can  see 
the  words  as  I  write  them  down.  My  little  baby  was 
waking.  She  had  known  nothing  of  the  awful  sea  com- 
ing nearer  with  each  wave ;  but  she  knew  me  as  I  came, 
and  smiled,  and  warbled  a  little  infant  welcome.  I  took 
her  up  in  my  arms,  and  trotted  home  with  my  pretty 
burden.  As  I  paced  up  the  hill,  M.  de  la  Motte  and  one 
of  the  French  clergymen  met  me.  By  ones  and  twos, 
the  other  searchers  after  my  little  wanderer  came  home 
from  their  quest.  She  was  laid  in  her  little  crib,  and 
never  knew,  until  years  later,  the  danger  from  which 
she  had  been  rescued. 

My  adventures  became  known  in  our  town,  and  I 
made  some  acquaintances  who  were  very  kind  to  me,  and 
were  the  means  of  advancing  me  in  after-life.  I  was 
too  young  to  understand  much  what  was  happening 
round  about  me;  but  now,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  I 
must  confess  that  old  grandfather,  besides  his  business 
of  perru(]uier,  which  you  will  say  is  no  very  magnificent 
trade,  followed  others  which  were  far  less  reputable. 


OUT    OF    THE    DEPTHS  73 

What  do  you  say,  for  instance,  of  a  church  elder,  who 
lends  money  a  la  ijetite  semaine^  and  at  great  interest? 
The  fishermen,  the  market-people,  nay,  one  or  two 
farmers  and  gentlemen  round  about,  were  beholden  to 
grandfather  for  supplies,  and  they  came  to  him,  to  be 
shaved  in  more  ways  than  one.  No  good  came  out  of 
his  gains,  as  I  shall  presently  tell:  but  meanwhile  his 
hands  were  for  ever  stretched  out  to  claw  other  folks' 
money  towards  himself;  and  it  must  be  owned  that 
madame  sa  hru  loved  a  purse  too,  and  was  by  no  means 
scrupulous  as  to  the  way  of  filling  it.  Monsieur  le 
Chevalier  de  la  Motte  was  free-handed  and  grand  in 
his  manner.  He  paid  a  pension,  I  know  not  how  much, 
for  the  maintenance  of  poor  Madame  de  Saverne.  He 
had  brought  her  to  the  strait  in  which  she  was,  poor 
thing.  Had  he  not  worked  on  her,  she  never  would  have 
left  her  religion :  she  never  would  have  fled  from  her  hus- 
band: that  fatal  duel  would  never  have  occurred:  right 
or  wrong,  he  was  the  cause  of  her  calamity,  and  he 
would  make  it  as  light  as  it  might  be.  I  know  how,  for 
years,  extravagant  and  embarrassed  as  he  was,  he  yet 
supplied  means  for  handsomely  maintaining  the  little 
Agnes  when  she  was  presently  left  an  orphan  in  the 
world,  when  mother  and  father  both  were  dead,  and  her 
relatives  at  home  disowned  her. 

The  ladies  of  Barr,  Agnes's  aunts,  totally  denied  that 
the  infant  was  their  brother's  child,  and  refused  any 
contribution  towards  her  maintenance.  Her  mother's 
family  equally  disavowed  her.  They  had  been  taught 
the  same  story,  and  I  suppose  we  believe  willingly 
enough  what  we  wish  to  believe.  The  poor  lad}^  was 
guilty.  Her  child  had  been  born  in  her  husband's  ab- 
sence.   When  his  return  was  announced,  she  fled  from 


74  DENIS  DUVAL 

her  home,  not  daring  to  face  him;  and  the  unhappy 
Count  de  Saverne  died  by  the  pistol  of  the  man  who 
had  already  robbed  him  of  his  honour.  La  Motte  had 
to  bear  this  obloquy,  or  only  protest  against  it  by  letters 
from  England.  He  could  not  go  over  to  Lorraine, 
where  he  was  plunged  in  debt.  "At  least,  Duval,"  said 
he  to  me,  when  I  shook  hands  with  him,  and  with  all  my 
heart  forgave  him,  "mad,  and  reckless  as  I  have  been, 
and  fatal  to  all  whom  I  loved ;  I  have  never  allowed  the 
child  to  want,  and  have  supported  her  in  comfort,  when 
I  was  myself  almost  without  a  meal."  A  bad  man  no 
doubt  this  was ;  and  yet  not  utterly  wicked :  a  great  crim- 
inal who  paid  an  awful  penalty.  Let  us  be  humble,  who 
have  erred  too ;  and  thankful,  if  we  have  a  hope  that  we 
have  found  mercy. 

I  believe  it  was  some  braggart  letter,  which  La  Motte 
wrote  to  a  comrade  in  M.  de  Vaux's  camp,  and  in  which 
he  boasted  of  making  the  conversion  of  a  petite  Pro- 
testante  at  Strasbourg,  which  came  to  the  knowledge  of 
poor  M.  de  Saverne,  hastened  his  return  home,  and 
brought  about  this  dreadful  end.  La  Motte  owned  as 
much,  indeed,  in  the  last  interview  I  ever  had  with 
him. 

Who  told  Madame  de  Saverne  of  her  husband's 
death?  It  was  not  for  years  after  that  I  myself  (un- 
lucky chatterbox,  whose  tongue  was  always  blabbing) 
knew  what  had  happened.  ]My  mother  thought  that  she 
must  have  overheard  Bidois  the  boatman,  who  told  the 
whole  story  over  his  glass  of  Geneva  in  our  parlour. 
The  Countess's  chamber  was  overhead,  and  the  door  left 
open.  The  poor  thing  used  to  be  very  angry  at  the 
notion  of  a  locked  door,  and  since  that  awful  escapade 
to  the  sea-shore,  my  mother  slept  in  her  room,  or  a  ser- 


OUT    OF    THE    DEPTHS  75 

vant  whom  she  liked  pretty  well  supplied  mother's 
place. 

In  her  condition  the  dreadful  event  affected  her  but 
little ;  and  we  never  knew  that  she  was  aware  of  it  until 
one  evening  when  it  happened  that  a  neighbour,  one  of 
our  French  people  of  Rye,  was  talking  over  the  tea- 
table,  and  telling  us  of  a  dreadful  thing  he  had  seen  on 
Penenden  Heath  as  he  was  coming  home.  He  there 
saw  a  woman  burned  at  the  stake  for  the  murder  of  her 
husband.  The  story  is  in  the  Gentleman  s  Magazine 
for  the  year  1769,  and  that  will  settle  pretty  well  the 
date  of  the  evening  when  our  neighbour  related  the 
horrible  tale  to  us. 

Poor  Madame  de  Saverne  (who  had  a  very  grand  air, 
and  was  perfectly  like  a  lady)  said  quite  simply,  "In 
this  case,  my  good  Ursule,  I  shall  be  burned  too.  For 
you  know  I  was  the  cause  of  my  husband  being  killed. 
M.  le  Chevalier  went  and  killed  him  in  Corsica."  And 
she  looked  round  with  a  little  smile,  and  nodded;  and 
arranged  her  white  dress  with  her  slim  hot  hands. 

When  the  poor  thing  spoke,  the  Chevalier  sank  back 
as  if  he  had  been  shot  himself. 

"Good-night,  neighbour  Marion,"  groans  mother; 
"  she  is  very  bad  to-night.  Come  to  bed,  my  dear,  come 
to  bed."  And  the  poor  thing  followed  mother,  curtsey- 
ing very  finely  to  the  company,  and  saying,  quite  softly, 
"  Oui,  oui,  oui,  they  will  burn  me;  they  will  burn  me." 

This  idea  seized  upon  her  mind,  and  never  left  it. 
Madame  la  Comtesse  passed  a  night  of  great  agitation; 
talking  incessantly.  Mother  and  her  maid  were  up  with 
her  all  night.  All  night  long  we  could  hear  her  songs, 
her  screams,  her  terrible  laughter.  .  .  .  Oh,  pitiful 
was  thy  lot  in  this  world,  poor  guiltless,  harmless  lady. 


76  DENIS  DUVAL 

In  thy  brief  years,  how  little  happiness !  For  thy  mar- 
riage portion  only  gloom,  and  terror,  and  submission, 
and  captivity.  The  awful  Will  above  us  ruled  it  so. 
Poor  frightened  spirit!  it  has  woke  under  serener  skies 
now,  and  passed  out  of  reach  of  our  terrors,  and  tempta- 
tions, and  troubles. 

At  my  early  age  I  could  only  be  expected  to  obey  my 
elders  and  parents,  and  to  consider  all  things  were  right 
which  were  done  round  about  me.  Mother's  cuffs  on 
the  head  I  received  without  malice,  and  if  the  truth  must 
be  owned,  had  not  seldom  to  submit  to  the  major  opera- 
tion which  my  grandfather  used  to  perform  with  a  cer- 
tain rod  which  he  kept  in  a  locked  cupboard,  and  ac- 
company with  long  wearisome  sermons  between  each  cut 
or  two  of  his  favourite  instrument.  These  good  people, 
as  I  gradually  began  to  learn,  bore  but  an  indifferent 
reputation  in  the  town  which  they  inhabited,  and  were 
neither  liked  by  the  French  of  their  own  colony,  nor 
by  the  English  among  whom  we  dwelt.  Of  course, 
being  a  simple  little  fellow,  I  honoured  my  father  and 
mother  as  became  me— my  grandfather  and  mother,  that 
is— father  being  dead  some  years. 

Grandfather,  I  knew,  had  a  share  in  a  fishing-boat, 
as  numbers  of  people  had,  both  at  Rye  and  Winchelsea. 
Stokes,  our  fisherman,  took  me  out  once  or  twice,  and 
I  liked  the  sport  very  much:  but  it  appeared  that  I 
ought  to  have  said  nothing  about  the  boat  and  the  fish- 
ing—for one  night  when  we  pulled  out  only  a  short 
way  beyond  a  rock  which  we  used  to  call  the  Bull  Rock, 
from  a  pair  of  horns  which  stuck  out  of  the  water,  and 
there  were  hailed  by  my  old  friend  Bidois,  who  had  come 
from  Boulogne  in  his  lugger— and  then     .     .     .     well 


OUT    OF    THE    DEPTHS  77 

then,  I  was  going  to  explain  the  whole  matter  artlessly 
to  one  of  our  neighbours  who  happened  to  step  in  to 
supper,  when  grandpapa  (who  had  made  a  grace  of  five 
minutes  long  before  taking  the  dish-cover  oif )  fetched 
me  a  slap  across  the  face  which  sent  me  reeling  off  my 
perch.  And  the  Chevalier,  who  was  supping  with  us, 
only  laughed  at  my  misfortune. 

This  being  laughed  at  somehow  affected  me  more 
than  the  blows.  I  was  used  to  those,  from  grandfather 
and  mother  too;  but  when  people  once  had  been  kind 
to  me  I  could  not  bear  a  different  behaviour  from  them. 
And  this  gentleman  certainly  was.  He  improved  my 
French  very  much,  and  used  to  laugh  at  my  blunders 
and  bad  pronunciation.  He  took  a  good  deal  of  pains 
with  me  when  I  was  at  home,  and  made  me  speak  French 
like  a  little  gentleman. 

In  a  very  brief  time  he  learned  English  himself,  with 
a  droll  accent  to  be  sure,  but  so  as  to  express  himself 
quite  intelligibly.  His  head-quarters  were  at  Winchel- 
sea,  though  he  would  frequently  be  away  at  Deal, 
Dover,  Canterbury,  even  London.  He  paid  mother  a 
pension  for  little  Agnes,  who  grew  apace,  and  was  the 
most  winning  child  I  ever  set  eyes  on.  I  remember,  as 
well  as  yesterday,  the  black  dress  which  was  made  for 
her  after  her  poor  mother's  death,  her  pale  cheeks,  and 
the  great  solemn  eyes  gazing  out  from  under  the  black 
curling  ringlets  which  fell  over  her  forehead  and  face. 

Why  do  I  make  zigzag  journeys?  'Tis  the  privilege 
of  old  age  to  be  garrulous,  and  its  happiness  to  remem- 
ber early  days.  As  I  sink  back  in  my  arm-chair,  safe 
and  sheltered  post  tot  discrimina,  and  happier  than  it 
has  been  the  lot  of  most  fellow-sinners  to  be,  the  past 
comes  back  to  me— the  stormy  past,  the  strange  un- 


78  DENIS  DUVAL 

happy  yet  happy  past — and  I  look  at  it  scared  and  as- 
tonished sometimes;  as  huntsmen  look  at  the  gaps  and 
ditches  over  which  they  have  leapt,  and  wonder  how 
they  are  alive. 

]My  good  fortune  in  rescuing  that  little  darling  child 
caused  the  Chevalier  to  be  very  kind  to  me;  and  when 
he  was  with  us,  I  used  to  hang  on  to  the  skirts  of  his 
coat,  and  prattle  for  hours  together,  quite  losing  all  fear 
of  him.  Except  my  kind  namesake,  the  captain  and 
admiral,  this  was  the  first  gentleman  I  ever  met  in  inti- 
macy— a  gentleman  with  many  a  stain,  nay  crime  to 
reproach  him ;  but  not  all  lost,  I  hope  and  pray.  I  own 
to  having  a  kindly  feeling  towards  that  fatal  man.  I 
see  myself  a  child  prattling  at  his  coat-skirts,  and  trot- 
ting along  our  roads  and  marshes  with  him.  I  see  him 
with  his  sad  pale  face— and  a  kind  of  blighting  look  he 
had — looking  at  that  unconscious  lady,  at  that  little 
baby.  My  friends  the  Neapolitans  would  have  called 
his  an  evil  eye,  and  exorcised  it  accordingly.  A  favour- 
ite walk  we  had  was  to  a  house  about  a  mile  out  of  Win- 
chelsea,  where  a  grazing  farmer  lived.  My  delight  then 
was  to  see  not  his  cattle,  but  his  pigeons,  of  which  he 
had  a  good  stock,  of  croppers,  pouters,  runts,  and  tur- 
bits;  and  amongst  these  I  was  told  there  were  a  sort  of 
pigeons  called  carriers,  which  would  fly  for  prodigious 
distances,  returning  from  the  place  to  which  they  were 
taken  though  it  were  ever  so  distant,  to  that  where  they 
lived  and  were  bred. 

Whilst  I  was  at  Mr.  Perreau's,  one  of  these  pigeons 
actually  came  in  flying  from  the  sea,  as  it  appeared  to  me : 
and  Perreau  looked  at  it,  and  fondled  it,  and  said  to  the 
Chevalier,  "There  is  nothing.  It  is  to  be  at  the  old 
place."     On  which  M.  le  Chevalier  only  said,  "  C'est 


OUT    OF    THE    DEPTHS  79 

bien;"  and  as  we  walked  away  told  me  all  he  knew  about 
pigeons,  which  I  dare  say  was  no  great  knowledge. 

Why  did  he  say  there  was  nothing?  I  asked  in  the 
innocence  of  my  prattle.  The  Chevalier  told  me  that 
these  birds  sometimes  brought  messages,  written  on  a 
little  paper,  and  tied  under  their  wings,  and  that  Per- 
reau  said  there  was  nothing  because  there  was  nothing. 

"  Oh,  then!  he  sometimes  does  have  messages  with  his 
birds?" 

The  Chevalier  shrugged  his  shoulder,  and  took  a  great 
pinch  out  of  his  fine  snuff-box.  "  What  did  papa 
Duval  do  to  you  the  other  day  when  you  began  to  talk 
too  fast?"  says  he.  "Learn  to  hold  thy  little  tongue, 
Denis,  mon  gar^on.  If  thou  livest  a  little  longer,  and 
tellest  all  thou  seest,  the  Lord  help  thee! "  And  I  sup- 
pose our  conversation  ended  here,  and  he  strode  home, 
and  I  trotted  after  him. 

I  narrate  these  things  occurring  in  childhood  by  the 
help  of  one  or  two  marks  which  have  been  left  behind — 
as  the  ingenious  boy  found  his  way  home  by  the  pebbles 
which  he  dropped  along  his  line  of  march.  Thus  I  hap- 
pen to  know  the  year  when  poor  Madame  de  Saverne 
must  have  been  ill,  by  referring  to  the  date  of  the  execu- 
tion of  the  woman  whom  our  neighbour  saw  burned  on 
Penenden  Heath.  Was  it  days,  was  it  weeks  after  this 
that  Madame  de  Saverne's  illness  ended  as  all  our  ill- 
nesses will  end  one  day? 

During  the  whole  course  of  her  illness,  whatever  its 
length  may  have  been,  those  priests  from  Slindon  (or 
from  Mr.  Weston's  the  Popish  gentleman's  at  the 
Priory)  were  constantly  in  our  house,  and  I  suppose 
created  a  great  scandal  among  the  Protestants  of  the 
town.    M.  de  la  Motte  showed  an  extraordinary  zeal  in 


80  DENIS  DUVAL 

this  business;  and,  sinner  as  he  was,  certainly  was  a 
most  devout  sinner,  according  to  his  persuasion.  I  do 
not  remember,  or  was  not  cognizant,  when  the  end  came ; 
but  I  remember  my  astonishment  as,  passing  by  her 
open  chamber  door,  I  saw  candles  lighted  before  her 
bed,  and  some  of  those  clergy  watching  there,  and  the 
Chevalier  de  la  JNIotte  kneeling  in  the  passage  in  an 
attitude  of  deep  contrition  and  grief. 

On  that  last  day  there  was,  as  it  appeared,  a  great 
noise  and  disturbance  round  our  house.  The  people 
took  offence  at  the  perpetual  coming  in  and  out  of  the 
priest;  and  on  the  very  night  when  the  coffin  was  to  be 
taken  from  our  house,  and  the  clergymen  were  perform- 
ing the  last  services  there,  the  windows  of  the  room, 
where  the  poor  lady  lay,  w^ere  broken  in  by  a  great 
volley  of  stones,  and  a  roaring  mob  shouting,  "  No 
Popery,  down  with  priests ! " 

Grandfather  lost  all  courage  at  these  threatening 
demonstrations,  and  screamed  out  at  his  hru  for  bring- 
ing all  this  persecution  and  danger  upon  him.  ^'^  Silence, 
miserable!''  says  she.  "  Go  sit  in  the  back  kitchen,  and 
count  your  money-bags!"  She,  at  least,  did  not  lose 
her  courage. 

M.  de  la  Motte,  though  not  frightened,  was  much  dis- 
turbed. The  matter  might  be  very  serious.  I  did  not 
know  at  the  time  how  furiously  angry  our  townspeople 
M^ere  with  my  parents  for  harbouring  a  Papist.  Had 
they  known  that  the  lady  was  a  converted  Protestant, 
they  would,  doubtless,  have  been  more  violent  still. 

We  were  in  a  manner  besieged  in  our  house ;  the  gar- 
rison being— the  two  priests  in  much  terror;  my  grand- 
father, under  the  bed  for  what  I  know,  or  somewhere 
where  he  would  be  equally  serviceable;  my  mother  and 


OUT    OF    THE    DEPTHS  81 

the  Chevalier,  with  their  wits  about  them;  and  little 
Denis  Duval,  no  doubt  very  much  in  the  way.  When 
the  poor  lady  died  it  was  thought  advisable  to  send  her 
little  girl  out  of  the  way ;  and  IVIrs.  Weston  at  the  Priory 
took  her  in,  who  belonged,  as  has  before  been  said,  to  the 
ancient  faith. 

We  looked  out  with  no  little  alarm  for  the  time  when 
the  hearse  should  come  to  take  the  poor  lady's  body 
away;  for  the  people  would  not  leave  the  street,  and 
barricaded  either  end  of  it,  having  perpetrated  no  actual 
violence  beyond  the  smashing  of  the  windows  as  yet, 
but  ready  no  doubt  for  more  mischief. 

Calling  me  to  him,  ^I.  de  la  Motte  said,  "  Denis,  thou 
rememberest  about  the  carrier  pigeon  the  other  day  with 
nothing  under  his  wing?"    I  remembered,  of  course. 

"  Thou  shalt  be  my  carrier  pigeon.  Thou  shalt  carry 
no  letter  but  a  message.  I  can  trust  thee  now  with  a 
secret."  And  I  kept  it,  and  will  tell  it  now  that  the 
people  are  quite  out  of  danger  from  that  piece  of  intel- 
ligence, as  I  can  promise  you. 

"  You  know  Mr.  Weston's  house? "  Know  the  house 
where  Agnes  was— the  best  house  in  the  town?  Of 
course  I  did.  He  named  eight  or  ten  houses  besides 
Weston's  at  which  I  was  to  go  and  say,  "  The  mackerel 
are  coming  in.  Come  as  many  of  you  as  can."  And  I 
went  to  the  houses,  and  said  the  words;  and  when  the 
people  said,  "Where?"  I  said,  "Opposite  our  house," 
and  so  went  on. 

The  last  and  handsomest  house  (I  had  never  been  in 
it  before)  was  Mr.  Weston's,  at  the  Priory:  and  there 
I  went  and  called  to  see  him.  And  I  remember  Mrs. 
Weston  was  walking  up  and  down  a  gallery  over  the 
hall  with  a  little  crying  child  who  would  not  go  to  sleep. 


82  DENIS  DUVAL 

"Agnes,  Agnes!"  says  I,  and  that  baby  was  quiet 
in  a  minute,  smiling,  and  crowing  and  flinging  out  her 
arms.    Indeed,  mine  was  the  first  name  she  could  speak. 

The  gentlemen  came  out  of  their  parlour,  where  they 
were  over  their  pipes,  and  asked  me,  surlily  enough, 
"What  I  wanted?"  I  said,  "The  mackerel  were  out, 
and  the  crews  were  wanted  before  Peter  Duval's,  the 
barber's."  And  one  of  them,  with  a  scowl  on  his  face, 
and  an  oath,  said  they  would  be  there,  and  shut  the  door 
in  my  face. 

As  I  went  away  from  the  Priory,  and  crossed  the 
churchyard  by  the  Rectory  gate,  who  should  come  up 
but  Doctor  Barnard  in  his  gig,  with  lamps  lighted;  and 
I  always  saluted  him  after  he  had  been  so  kind  to  me, 
and  had  given  me  the  books  and  the  cake.  "What," 
says  he,  "my  little  shrimper!  Have  you  fetched  any 
fish  off  the  rocks  to-night?" 

"  Oh,  no,  sir! "  says  I.  "  I  have  been  taking  messages 
all  round." 

"And  what  message,  my  boy?" 

I  told  him  the  message  about  the  mackerel,  &c. ;  but 
added  that  I  must  not  tell  the  names,  for  the  Chevalier 
had  desired  me  not  to  mention  them.  And  then  I  went 
on  to  tell  how  there  was  a  great  crowd  in  the  street,  and 
that  they  were  breaking  windows  at  our  house. 

"  Breaking  windows?  What  for?"  I  told  him  what 
had  happened.  "  Take  Dolly  to  the  stables.  Don't  say 
anything  to  your  mistress,  Samuel,  and  come  along  with 
me,  my  little  shrimper,"  says  the  Doctor.  He  was  a 
very  tall  man  in  a  great  white  wig.  I  see  him  now  skip- 
ping over  the  tombstones,  by  the  great  ivy  tower  of  the 
church,  and  so  through  the  churchyard-gate  towards 
our  house. 


OUT    OF    THE    DEPTHS  83 

The  hearse  had  arrived  by  this  time.  The  crowd  had 
increased,  and  there  was  much  disturbance  and  agita- 
tion. As  soon  as  the  hearse  came,  a  yell  rose  up  from 
the  people.  "  Silence,  shame!  Hold  your  tongue !  Let 
the  poor  woman  go  in  quiet,"  a  few  people  said.  These 
were  the  men  of  the  mackerel  fishery;  whom  the  Weston 
gentleman  presently  joined.  But  the  fishermen  were 
a  small  crowd;  the  townspeople  were  many  and  very 
angry.  As  we  passed  by  the  end  of  Port  Street  (where 
our  house  was)  we  could  see  the  people  crowding  at 
either  end  of  the  street,  and  in  the  midst  the  great 
hearse  with  its  black  plumes  before  our  door. 

It  was  impossible  that  the  hearse  could  pass  through 
the  crowd  at  either  end  of  the  street,  if  the  people  were 
determined  to  bar  the  way.  I  went  in,  as  I  had  come, 
by  the  back  gate  of  the  garden,  where  the  lane  was  still 
quite  solitary.  Dr.  Barnard  following  me.  We  were 
awfully  scared  as  we  passed  through  the  back  kitchen 
(where  the  oven  and  boiler  is)  by  the  sight  of  an 
individual  who  suddenly  leapt  out  of  the  copper,  and 
who  cried  out,  "  O  mercy,  mercy,  save  me  from  the 
wicked  men!"  This  was  my  grandpapa,  and,  with  all 
respect  for  grandpapas  (being  of  their  age  and  stand- 
ing myself  now),  I  cannot  but  own  that  mine  on  this 
occasion  cut  rather  a  pitiful  figure. 

"Save  my  house!  Save  my  property!"  shouts  my 
ancestor,  and  the  Doctor  turns  away  from  him  scorn- 
fully, and  passes  on. 

In  the  passage  out  of  this  back  kitchen  we  met  Mon- 
sieur de  la  Motte,  who  says,  "Ah,  c'est  toi,  mon  gar^on. 
Thou  hast  been  on  thy  errands.  Our  people  are  well 
there! "  and  he  makes  a  bow  to  the  Doctor,  who  came  in 
with  me,  and  who  replied  by  a  salutation  equally  stiff. 


84  DENIS  DUVAL 

M.  de  la  Motte,  reconnoitering  from  the  upper  room, 
had,  no  doubt,  seen  his  people  arrive.  As  I  looked 
towards  him  I  remarked  that  he  was  armed.  He  had  a 
belt  with  pistols  in  it,  and  a  sword  by  his  side. 

In  the  back  room  were  the  two  Roman  Catholic 
clergymen,  and  four  men  who  had  come  with  the  hearse. 
They  had  been  fiercely  assailed  as  they  entered  the  house 
with  curses,  shouts,  hustling,  and  I  believe  even  sticks 
and  stones.  My  mother  was  serving  them  with  brandy 
when  we  came  in.  She  was  astonished  when  she  saw  the 
rector  make  his  appearance  in  our  house.  There  was 
no  love  between  his  reverence  and  our  family. 

He  made  a  very  grand  obeisance  to  the  Roman  Cath- 
olic clergymen.  "  Gentlemen,"  said  he,  "  as  rector  of 
this  parish,  and  magistrate  of  the  county,  I  have  come 
to  keep  the  peace:  and  if  there  is  any  danger,  to  share 
it  with  you.  The  lady  will  be  buried  in  the  old  church- 
yard, I  hear.    Mr.  Trestles,  are  you  ready  to  move? " 

The  men  said  they  would  be  prepared  immediately, 
and  went  to  bring  down  their  melancholy  burden. 
"Open  the  door,  you!"  says  the  Doctor.  The  people 
within  shrank  back.    "  I  will  do  it,"  says  mother. 

"  Et  moi,  parbleu! "  says  the  Chevalier  advancing,  his 
hand  on  his  hilt. 

"  I  think,  sir,  I  shall  be  more  serviceable  than  you," 
says  the  Doctor,  very  coldly.  "If  these  gentlemen  my 
confreres  are  ready,  we  will  go  out;  I  will  go  first,  as 
rector  of  this  parish."  And  mother  drew  the  bolts,  and 
he  walked  out  and  took  oiF  his  hat. 

A  Babel  roar  of  yells,  shouts,  curses,  came  pouring 
into  the  hall  as  the  door  opened,  and  the  Doctor  re- 
mained on  the  steps,  bareheaded  and  undaunted. 

"How  many  of  my  parishioners  are  here?     Stand 


OUT    OF    THE    DEPTHS  85 

aside  all  who  come  to  my  church!"  he  called  out  very- 
bold. 

At  this  arose  immense  roars  of  "No  Popery!  down 
with  the  priests!  down  with  them!  drown  them!"  and  I 
know  not  what  more  words  of  hatred  and  menace. 

"  You  men  of  the  French  church,"  shouted  out  the 
Doctor,  "  are  you  here? " 

"We  are  here!  Down  with  Popery!"  roar  the 
Frenchmen. 

"  Because  you  were  persecuted  a  hundred  j^ears  ago, 
you  want  to  persecute  in  your  turn.  Is  that  what  your 
Bible  teaches  you?  Mine  doesn't.  When  your  church 
wanted  repair,  I  gave  you  my  nave  where  you  had  your 
service,  and  were  welcome.  Is  this  the  way  you  repay 
kindness  which  has  been  shown  to  you,  you  who  ought 
to  know  better?  For  shame  on  you!  I  say  for  shame! 
Don't  try  and  frighten  me.  Roger  Hooker,  I  know 
you,  you  poaching  vagabond;  who  kept  your  wife  and 
children  when  you  were  at  Lewes  Gaol?  How  dare  you 
be  persecuting  anybody,  Thomas  Flint?  As  sure  as  my 
name  is  Barnard,  if  you  stop  this  procession,  I  will 
commit  you  to-morrow." 

Here  was  a  cry  of  "  Huzzay  for  the  Doctor!  huzzay 
for  the  Rector!"  which  I  am  afraid  came  from  the 
macherels,  who  were  assembled  b}^  this  time,  and  were 
not  mum,  as  fish  generally  are. 

"Now,  gentlemen,  advance,  if  you  please!"  This 
he  said  to  the  two  foreign  clergymen,  who  came  forward 
courageously  enough,  the  Chevalier  de  la  ]Motte  walk- 
ing behind  them.  "  Listen,  you  friends  and  jDarishion- 
ers.  Churchmen  and  Dissenters!  These  two  foreign 
dissenting  clergymen  are  going  to  bury,  in  a  neigh- 
bouring churchyard,  a  departed  sister,  as  you  foreign 


86  DENIS  DUVAL 

dissenters  have  buried  your  own  dead  without  harm  or 
hindrance ;  and  I  will  accompany  these  gentlemen  to  the 
grave  prepared  for  the  deceased  lady,  and  I  will  see 
her  laid  in  peace  there,  as  surely  as  I  hope  myself  to 
lie  in  peace." 

Here  the  people  shouted;  but  it  was  with  admiration 
for  the  rector.  There  was  no  outcry  any  more.  The 
little  procession  fell  into  an  orderly  rank,  passed  through 
the  streets,  and  round  the  Protestant  church  to  the  old 
burying-ground  behind  the  house  of  the  Priory.  The 
rector  walked  between  the  two  Roman  Catholic  clergy- 
men. I  imagine  the  scene  before  me  now — the  tramp 
of  the  people,  the  flicker  of  a  torch  or  two ;  and  then  we 
go  in  at  the  gate  of  the  Priory  ground  into  the  old 
graveyard  of  the  monastery,  where  a  grave  had  been 
dug,  on  which  the  stone  still  tells  that  Clarissa,  born  de 
Viomesnil,  and  widow  of  Francis  Stanislas  Count  of 
Saverne  and  Barr  in  Lorraine,  lies  buried  beneath. 

When  the  service  was  ended,  the  Chevalier  de  la 
Motte  (by  whose  side  I  stood,  holding  by  his  cloak) 
came  up  to  the  Doctor.  "Monsieur  le  Docteur,"  says 
he,  "you  have  acted  like  a  gallant  man;  you  have  pre- 
vented bloodshed — " 

"  I  am  fortunate,  sir,"  says  the  Doctor. 

"  You  have  saved  the  lives  of  these  two  worthy  eccle- 
siastics, and  rescued  from  insult  the  remains  of  one — " 

"  Of  whom  I  know  the  sad  history,"  says  the  Doctor, 
very  gravely. 

"  I  am  not  rich,  but  will  you  permit  me  to  give  this 
purse  for  your  poor!" 

"  Sir,  it  is  my  duty  to  accept  it,"  replied  the  Doctor. 
The  purse  contained  a  hundred  louis,  as  he  afterwards 
told  me. 


OUT    OF    THE    DEPTHS  87 

"And  may  I  ask  to  take  your  hand,  sir?"  cries  the 
poor  ChevaHer,  clasping  his  own  together. 

"No,  sir!"  said  the  Doctor,  putting  his  own  hands 
behind  his  back.  "  Your  hands  have  that  on  them  which 
the  gift  of  a  few  guineas  cannot  wash  away."  The  Doc- 
tor spoke  very  good  French.  "My  child,  good-night; 
and  the  best  thing  I  can  wish  thee  is  to  wish  thee  out  of 
the  hands  of  that  man." 

"Monsieur!"  says  the  Chevalier,  laying  his  hand  on 
his  sword  mechanically. 

"  I  think,  sir,  the  last  time  it  was  with  the  pistol  you 
showed  your  skill!"  says  Doctor  Barnard,  and  went  in 
at  his  own  wicket  as  he  spoke,  leaving  poor  La  Motte 
like  a  man  who  has  just  been  struck  with  a  blow;  and 
then  he  fell  to  weeping  and  crying  that  the  curse— the 
curse  of  Cain  was  upon  him. 

"My  good  boy,"  the  old  rector  said  to  me  in  after 
days,  while  talking  over  these  adventures,  "thy  friend 
the  Chevalier  was  the  most  infernal  scoundrel  I  ever  set 
eyes  on,  and  I  never  looked  at  his  foot  without  expecting 
to  see  it  was  cloven." 

"And  could  he  tell  me  anything  about  the  poor  Coun- 
tess?" I  asked.  He  knew  nothing.  He  saw  her  but 
once,  he  thought.  "And  faith,"  says  he,  with  an  arch 
look,  "it  so  happened  that  I  was  not  too  intimate  with 
your  own  worthy  family." 


CHAPTER  V 

I  HEAR  THE  SOUND  OF  BOW  BELLS 

WHATEVER  may  have  been  the  rector's  dislike 
to  my  parents,  in  respect  of  us  juniors  and  my 
dear  Httle  Agnes  de  Saverne  he  had  no  such  prejudices, 
and  both  of  us  were  great  favourites  with  him.  He  con- 
sidered himself  to  be  a  man  entirely  without  prejudices; 
and  towards  Roman  Catholics  he  certainly  was  most 
liberal.  He  sent  his  wife  to  see  Mrs.  Weston,  and  an 
acquaintance  was  made  between  the  families,  who  had 
scarcely  known  each  other  before.  Little  Agnes  was 
constantly  with  these  Westons,  with  whom  the  Chevalier 
de  la  Motte  also  became  intimate.  Indeed,  we  have  seen 
that  he  must  have  known  them  already,  when  he  sent 
me  on  the  famous  "  mackerel "  message  which  brought 
together  a  score  at  least  of  townspeople.  I  remember 
Mrs.  Weston  as  a  frightened-looking  woman,  who 
seemed  as  if  she  had  a  ghost  constantly  before  her. 
Frightened,  however,  or  not,  she  was  always  kind  to  my 
little  Agnes. 

The  younger  of  the  Weston  brothers  (he  who  swore 
at  me  the  night  of  the  burial)  was  a  red-eyed,  pimple- 
faced,  cock-fighting  gentleman  for  ever  on  the  trot, 
and  known,  I  dare  say  not  very  favourably,  all  the  coun- 
try round.  They  were  said  to  be  gentlemen  of  good  pri- 
vate means.  They  lived  in  a  pretty  genteel  way,  with 
a  postchaise  for  the  lady,  and  excellent  nags  to  ride. 

88 


I  HEAR  THE  SOUXD  OF  BOW  BELLS    89 

They  saw  very  little  company;  but  this  may  have  been 
because  they  were  Roman  Catholics,  of  whom  there  were 
not  many  in  the  county,  except  at  Ai'undel  and  Slindon, 
where  the  lords  and  ladies  were  of  too  great  quality  to 
associate  with  a  pair  of  mere  fox-hunting,  horse-deal- 
ing squires.  M.  de  la  INIotte,  who  was  quite  the  fine 
gentleman,  as  I  have  said,  associated  with  these  people 
freely  enough:  but  then  he  had  interests  in  common 
with  them,  which  I  began  to  understand  when  I  was 
some  ten  or  a  dozen  years  old,  and  used  to  go  to  see  my 
little  Agnes  at  the  Priory.  She  was  growing  apace  to 
be  a  fine  lady.  She  had  dancing-masters,  music-masters, 
language-masters  (those  foreign  tonsured  gentry  who 
were  always  about  the  Priory),  and  was  so  tall  that 
mother  talked  of  putting  powder  in  her  hair.  All,  belle 
dame!  another  hand  hath  since  whitened  it,  though  I 
love  it  ebony  or  silver! 

I  continued  at  Rye  School,  boarding  with  Mr.  Rudge 
and  his  dram-drinking  daughter,  and  got  a  pretty  fair 
smattering  of  such  learning  as  was  to  be  had  at  the 
school.  I  had  a  fancy  to  go  to  sea,  but  Doctor  Barnard 
was  strong  against  that  wish  of  mine:  unless  indeed  I 
should  go  out  of  Rye  and  Winchelsea  altogether — get 
into  a  King's  ship,  and  perhaps  on  the  quarter-deck, 
under  the  patronage  of  my  friend  Sir  Peter  Denis,  who 
ever  continued  to  be  kind  to  me. 

Every  Saturday  night  I  trudged  home  from  Rye,  as 
gay  as  school-boy  could  be.  After  Madame  de  Saverne's 
death  the  Chevalier  de  la  Motte  took  our  lodgings  on 
the  first  floor.  He  was  of  an  active  disposition,  and 
found  business  in  plenty  to  occupy  him.  He  would 
be  absent  from  his  lodgings  for  weeks  and  months. 


90  DENIS  DUVAL 

He  made  journeys  on  horseback  into  the  interior 
of  the  country;  went  to  London  often;  and  some- 
times abroad  with  our  fishermen's  boats.  As  I  have 
said,  he  learned  our  language  well,  and  taught  me  his. 
Mother's  German  was  better  than  her  French,  and  my 
book  for  reading  the  German  was  Doctor  Luther's 
Bible;  indeed,  that  very  volume  in  which  poor  M.  de 
Saverne  wrote  down  his  prayer  for  the  child  whom  he 
was  to  see  only  twice  in  this  world. 

Though  Agnes 's  little  chamber  was  always  ready  at 
our  house,  where  she  was  treated  like  a  little  lady,  hav- 
ing a  servant  specially  attached  to  her,  and  all  the  world 
to  spoil  her,  she  passed  a  great  deal  of  time  with  Mrs. 
Weston,  of  the  Priory,  who  took  a  great  affection  for 
the  child  even  before  she  lost  her  own  daughter.  I  have 
said  that  good  masters  were  here  found  for  her.  She 
learned  to  speak  English  as  a  native,  of  course,  and 
French  and  music  from  the  fathers  who  always  were 
about  the  house.  Whatever  the  child's  expenses  or 
wants  were,  M.  de  la  Motte  generously  defrayed  them. 
After  his  journeys  he  would  bring  her  back  toys,  sweet- 
meats, knick-knacks  fit  for  a  little  duchess.  She  lorded 
it  over  great  and  small  in  the  Priory,  in  the  Perruquery^ 
as  we  may  call  my  mother's  house,  ay,  and  in  the  Rectory 
too,  where  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Barnard  were  her  very  humble 
servants,  like  all  the  rest  of  us. 

And  here  I  may  as  well  tell  you  that  I  was  made  to 
become  a  member  of  the  Church  of  England,  because 
mother  took  huff  at  our  French  Protestants,  who  would 
continue  persecuting  her  for  harbouring  the  Papists, 
and  insisted  that  between  the  late  poor  Countess  and  the 
Chevalier  there  had  been  an  unlawful  intimacy.  M. 
Borel,  our  pastor,  preached  at  poor  mother  several  times, 


I  HEAR  THE  SOUXD  OF  BOW  BELLS     91 

she  said.  I  did  not  understand  his  inuendoes,  being  a 
simple  child,  I  fear  not  caring  much  for  sermons  in  those 
days.  For  grandpapa's  I  know  I  did  not;  he  used  to 
give  us  half  an  hour  at  morning,  and  half  an  hour  at 
evening.  I  could  not  help  thinking  of  grandfather 
skipping  out  of  the  copper,  and  calling  on  us  to  spare 
his  life  on  the  day  of  the  funeral;  and  his  preaching 
went  in  at  one  ear  and  out  at  t'other.  One  day — aprojDos 
of  some  pomatum  which  a  customer  wanted  to  buy,  and 
which  I  know  mother  made  with  lard  and  bergamot 
herself — I  heard  him  tell  such  a  fib  to  a  customer,  that 
somehow  I  never  could  respect  the  old  man  after- 
wards. He  actually  said  the  pomatum  had  just  come 
to  him  from  France  direct — from  the  Dauphin's  own 
hair-dresser :  and  our  neighbour,  I  dare  say,  would  have 
bought  it,  but  I  said,  "  Oh,  grandpapa,  you  must  mean 
some  other  pomatum !  I  saw  mother  make  this  with  her 
own  hands."  Grandfather  actually  began  to  cry  when 
I  said  this.  He  said  I  was  being  his  death.  He  asked 
that  somebody  should  fetch  him  out  and  hang  him  that 
moment.  Why  is  there  no  bear,  says  he,  to  eat  that 
little  monster's  head  off  and  destroy  that  prodigy  of 
crime?  Nay,  I  used  to  think  I  teas  a  monster  some- 
times: he  would  go  on  so  fiercely  about  my  wickedness 
and  perverseness. 

Doctor  Barnard  was  passing  by  our  pole  one  day,' 
and  our  open  door,  when  grandfather  was  preaching 
upon  this  sin  of  mine,  with  a  strap  in  one  hand,  laying 
over  my  shoulders  in  the  intervals  of  the  discourse. 
Down  goes  the  strap  in  a  minute,  as  the  Doctor's  lean 
figure  makes  its  appearance  at  the  door;  and  grand- 
father begins  to  smirk  and  bow,  and  hope  his  reverence 
was  well.     My  heart  was  full.     I  had  had  sermon  in 


92  DENIS  DUVAL 

the  morning,  and  sermon  at  night,  and  strapping  every 
day  that  week;  and  heaven  help  me,  I  loathed  that  old 
man,  and  loathe  him  still. 

"  How  can  I,  sir,"  says  I,  bursting  out  into  a  passion 
of  tears — "  How  can  I  honour  my  grandfather  and 

mother  if  grandfather  tells  such  d lies  as  he  does  ? " 

And  I  stamped  with  my  feet,  trembling  with  wrath 
and  indignation  at  the  disgrace  put  upon  me.  I  then 
burst  out  with  my  story,  which  there  was  no  contro- 
verting; and  I  will  say  grandfather  looked  at  me  as  if 
he  would  kill  me;  and  I  ended  my  tale  sobbing  at  tlie 
Doctor's  knees. 

"  Listen,  ]Mr.  Duval,"  says  Dr.  Barnard,  very  sternly: 
"  I  know  a  great  deal  more  than  you  think  about  you 
and  your  doings.  ]My  advice  to  you  is  to  treat  this 
child  well,  and  to  leave  off  some  practices  which  will 
get  you  into  trouble,  as  sure  as  your  name  is  what  it  is. 
I  know  where  your  pigeons  go  to,  and  where  they  come 
from.  And  some  day,  when  I  have  you  in  my  justice- 
room,  we  shall  see  whether  I  will  show  you  any  more 
mercy  than  you  have  shown  to  this  child.  I  know  you 
to  be  .  .  .  ."  and  the  Doctor  whispered  something 
into  grandfather's  ears  and  stalked  away. 

Can  you  guess  by  what  name  the  Doctor  called  my 
grandfather?  If  he  called  him  hypocrite,  ma  foi,  he  was 
not  far  wrong.  But  the  truth  is,  he  called  him  smug- 
gler, and  that  was  a  name  which  fitted  hundreds  of 
people  along  our  coast,  I  promise  you.  At  Hythe,  at 
Folkestone,  at  Dover,  Deal,  Sandwich,  there  were 
scores  and  scores  of  these  gentry.  All  the  way  to 
London  they  had  depots,  friends,  and  correspondents. 
Inland  and  along  the  Thames  there  were  battles  endless 
between  them  and  the  revenue  people.     Our  friends 


I  HEAR  THE  SOUND  OF  BOW  BELLS    93 

"  the  mackerel,"  who  came  out  at  Monsieur  de  la  Motte's 
summons,  of  course  were  of  this  calling.  One  day  when 
he  came  home  from  one  of  his  expeditions,  I  remember 
jumping"  forward  to  welcome  him,  for  he  was  at  one 
time  very  kind  to  me,  and  as  I  ran  into  his  arms  he 
started  back,  and  shrieked  out  an  oath  and  a  sacre-bleu 
or  two.  He  was  wounded  in  the  arm.  There  had  been 
a  regular  battle  at  Deal  between  the  dragoons  and 
revenue  officers  on  the  one  side,  and  the  smugglers  and 
their  friends.  Cavalry  had  charged  cavalry,  and  Mon- 
sieur de  la  Motte  (his  smuggling  name,  he  told  me 
afterwards,  was  Mr.  Paul,  or  Pole)  had  fought  on  the 
mackerel  side. 

So  were  my  gentlemen  at  the  Priory  of  the  Mackerel 
party.  Why,  I  could  name  you  great  names  of  mer- 
chants and  bankers  at  Canterbury,  Dover,  Rochester, 
who  were  engaged  in  this  traffic.  My  grandfather,  you 
see,  howled  with  the  wolves ;  but  then  he  used  to  wear  a 
snug  lamh's-skin  over  his  wolf's  hide.  Ah,  shall  I 
thank  Heaven  like  the  Pharisee,  that  I  am  not  as 
those  men  are  ?  I  hope  there  is  no  harm  in  being  thank- 
ful that  I  have  been  brought  out  of  temptation;  that 
I  was  not  made  a  rogue  at  a  child's  age ;  and  that  I  did 
not  come  to  the  gallows  as  a  man.  Such  a  fate  has 
befallen  more  than  one  of  the  precious  friends  of  my 
youth,  as  I  shall  have  to  relate  in  due  season. 

That  habit  I  had  of  speaking  out  everything  that 
was  on  my  mind  brought  me,  as  a  child,  into  innumer- 
able scrapes,  but  I  do  thankfully  believe  has  preserved 
me  from  still  greater.  What  could  you  do  with  a  little 
chatterbox,  who,  when  his  grandfather  offered  to  sell  a 
pot  of  pomatum  as  your  true  Pommade  de  Cythere, 
must  cry  out,  "  No,  grandpapa,  mother  made  it  with 


94  DENIS  DUVAL 

marrow  and  bergamot?"  If  anything  happened  which 
I  was  not  to  mention,  I  was  sure  to  bknider  out  some 
account  of  it.  Good  Doctor  Barnard,  and  my  patron 
Captain  Denis  (who  was  a  great  friend  of  our  rector), 
I  suppose  used  to  joke  about  this  propensity  of  mine, 
and  would  laugh  for  ten  minutes  together,  as  I  told 
my  stories;  and  I  think  the  Doctor  had  a  serious  con- 
versation with  my  mother  on  the  matter;  for  she  said, 
"  He  has  reason.  The  boy  shall  not  go  any  more.  We 
will  try  and  have  ojie  honest  man  in  the  family." 

Go  any  more  where?  Now  I  will  tell  you  (and  I  am 
much  more  ashamed  of  this  than  of  the  barber's  pole, 
Monsieur  mon  fils,  that  I  can  promise  you).  When 
I  was  boarding  at  the  grocer's  at  Rye,  I  and  other  boys 
were  constantly  down  at  the  water,  and  we  learned  to 
manage  a  boat  pretty  early.  Rudge  did  not  go  out 
himself,  being  rheumatic  and  lazy,  but  his  apprentice 
would  be  absent  frequently  all  night ;  and  on  more  than 
one  occasion  I  went  out  as  odd  boy  in  the  boat  to  put 
my  hand  to  anything. 

Those  pigeons  I  spoke  of  anon  come  from  Boulogne. 
When  one  arrived  he  brought  a  signal  that  our  Boulogne 
correspondent  was  on  his  way,  and  we  might  be  on  the 
look-out.  The  French  boat  would  make  for  a  point 
agreed  upon,  and  we  lie  off  until  she  came.  We  took 
cargo  from  her:  barrels  without  number,  I  remember. 
Once  we  saw  her  chased  away  by  a  revenue-cutter.  Once 
the  same  ship  fired  at  us.  I  did  not  know  what  the  balls 
were,  which  splashed  close  alongside  of  us;  but  I  re- 
member the  apprentice  of  Rudge's  (he  used  to  make 
love  to  Miss  R.,  and  married  her  afterwards,)  singing 
out,  "  I^ord,  have  mercy,"  in  an  awful  consternation, 
and  the  Chevalier  crying  out,  "  Hold  your  tongue,  mis- 


I  HEAR  THE  SOUND  OF  BOW  BELLS    95 

erable!  You  were  never  born  to  be  drowned  or  shot." 
He  had  some  hesitation  about  taking  me  out  on  this 
expedition.  He  was  engaged  in  running  smuggled 
goods,  that  is  the  fact;  and  "smuggler"  was  the  word 
which  Doctor  Barnard  whispered  in  my  grandfather's 
ear.  If  we  were  hard  pressed  at  certain  points  which 
we  knew,  and  could  ascertain  by  cross-bearings  which 
we  took,  we  would  sink  our  kegs  till  a  more  convenient 
time,  and  then  return  and  drag  for  them,  and  bring 
them  up  with  line  and  grapnel. 

I  certainly  behaved  much  better  when  we  were  fired 
at,  than  that  oaf  of  a  Bevil,  who  lay  howling  his  "  Lord, 
have  mercy  upon  us,"  at  the  bottom  of  the  boat;  but 
somehow  the  Chevalier  discouraged  my  juvenile  efforts 
in  the  smuggling  line,  from  his  fear  of  that  unlucky 
tongue  of  mine,  which  would  blab  everything  I  knew. 
I  may  have  been  out  a-fishing  half-a-dozen  times  in  all; 
but  especially  after  we  had  been  fired  at.  La  Motte  was 
for  leaving  me  at  home.  My  mother  was  averse,  too, 
to  my  becoming  a  seaman  (a  smuggler)  by  profession. 
Her  aim  was  to  make  a  gentleman  of  me,  she  said,  and 
I  am  most  unfeignedly  thankful  to  her  for  keeping  me 
out  of  mischief's  way.  Had  I  been  permitted  to  herd 
along  with  the  black  sheep.  Doctor  Barnard  would  never 
have  been  so  kind  to  me  as  he  was ;  and  indeed  that  good 
man  showed  me  the  greatest  favour.  When  I  came 
home  from  school  he  would  often  have  me  to  the  Rec- 
tory, and  hear  me  my  lessons,  and  he  was  pleased  to  say 
I  was  a  lively  boy  of  good  parts. 

The  Doctor  received  rents  for  his  college  at  Oxford, 
which  has  considerable  property  in  these  parts,  and 
twice  a  year  would  go  to  London  and  pay  the  mone5'^s 
over.     In  my  boyish  times  these  journeys  to  London 


96  DENIS  DUVAL 

were  by  no  means  without  danger;  and  if  you  will  take 
a  Gentleman's  Magazine  from  the  shelf  you  will  find 
a  highway  robbery  or  two  in  every  month's  chronicle. 
We  bo3^s  at  school  were  never  tired  of  talking  of  high- 
waymen and  their  feats.  As  I  often  had  to  walk  over  to 
Rye  from  home  of  a  night  ( so  as  to  be  in  time  for  early 
morning  school ) ,  I  must  needs  buy  a  little  brass-barrelled 
pistol,  with  which  I  practised  in  secret,  and  which  I  had 
to  hide,  lest  mother  or  Rudge,  or  the  schoolmaster, 
should  take  it  away  from  me.  Once  as  I  was  talking 
with  a  schoolfellow,  and  vapouring  about  what  we  would 
do,  were  we  attacked,  I  fired  my  pistol  and  shot  away  a 
piece  of  his  coat.  I  might  have  hit  his  stomach,  not  his 
coat — heaven  be  good  to  us! — and  this  accident  made 
me  more  careful  in  the  use  of  my  artillery.  And  now 
I  used  to  practise  with  small  shot  instead  of  bullets,  and 
pop  at  sparrows  whenever  I  could  get  a  chance. 

At  Michaelmas,  in  the  year  1776  (I  promise  you  I 
remember  the  year) ,  my  dear  and  kind  friend.  Doctor 
Barnard,  having  to  go  to  London  with  his  rents,  pro- 
posed to  take  me  to  London  to  see  my  other  patron.  Sir 
Peter  Denis,  between  wliom  and  the  Doctor  there  was  a 
great  friendshij^;  and  it  is  to  those  dear  friends  that  I 
owe  the  great  good  fortune  which  has  befallen  me  in 
life.  Indeed,  when  I  think  of  what  I  might  have  been, 
and  of  what  I  have  escaped,  my  heart  is  full  of  thank- 
fulness for  the  great  mercies  which  have  fallen  to  my 
share.  Well,  at  this  happy  and  eventful  Michaelmas 
of  1776,  Doctor  Barnard  says  to  me,  "  Denis,  my  child, 
if  thy  mother  will  grant  leave,  I  have  a  mind  to  take 
thee  to  see  thy  godfather.  Sir  Peter  Denis,  in  London. 
I  am  going  up  with  my  rents,  my  neighbour  Weston 
will  share  the  horses  with  me,  and  thou  shalt  see  the 


I  HEAR  THE  SOUND  OF  BOW  BELLS     97 

Tower  and  Mrs.  Salmon's  wax-work  before  thou  art  a 
week  older." 

You  may  suppose  that  this  proposition  made  Master 
Denis  Duval  jump  for  joy.  Of  course  I  had  heard  of 
London  all  my  life,  and  talked  with  people  who  had 
been  there,  but  that  I  should  go  myself  to  Admiral  Sir 
Peter  Denis's  house,  and  see  the  play,  St.  Paul's,  and 
Mrs.  Salmon's,  here  was  a  height  of  bliss  I  never  had 
hoped  to  attain.  I  could  not  sleep  for  thinking  of  my 
pleasure;  I  had  some  money,  and  I  promised  to  buy  as 
many  toys  for  Agnes  as  the  Chevalier  used  to  bring 
her.  My  mother  said  I  should  go  hke  a  gentleman,  and 
turned  me  out  in  a  red  waistcoat  with  plate  buttons,  a 
cock  to  my  hat,  and  ruffles  to  my  shirts.  How  I  counted 
the  hours  of  the  night  before  our  departure !  I  was  up 
before  the  dawn,  packing  my  little  vahse.  I  got  my 
little  brass-barrelled  pocket-pistol,  and  I  loaded  it  with 
shot.  I  put  it  away  into  my  breast-pocket;  and  if  we 
met  with  a  highwayman  I  promised  myself  he  should 
have  my  charge  of  lead  in  his  face.  The  Doctor's  post- 
chaise  was  at  his  stables  not  very  far  from  us.  The 
stable  lanterns  were  alight,  and  Brown,  the  Doctor's 
man,  cleaning  the  carriage,  when  Mr.  Denis  Duval 
comes  up  the  stable  door,  lugging  his  portmanteau  after 
him  through  the  twilight.  Was  ever  daylight  so  long 
a-coming?  Ah!  There  come  the  horses  at  last;  the 
horses  from  the  "  King's  Head,"  and  old  Pascoe,  the 
one-eyed  postilion.  How  well  I  remember  the  sound 
of  the  hoofs  in  that  silent  street!  I  can  tell  everything 
that  happened  on  that  day;  what  we  had  for  dinner— 
viz.,  veal  cutlets  and  French  beans,  at  Maidstone;  where 
we  changed  horses,  and  the  colour  of  the  horses.  "  Here, 
Brown!    Here's  my  portmanteau!    I  say,  where  shall 


98  DENIS  DUVAL 

I  stow  it?"  My  portmanteau  was  about  as  large  as  a 
good-sized  apple-pie.  I  jump  into  the  carriage  and  we 
drive  up  to  the  Rectory:  and  I  think  the  Doctor  will 
never  come  out.  There  he  is  at  last :  with  his  mouth  full 
of  buttered  toast,  and  I  bob  my  head  to  him  a  hundred 
times  out  of  the  chaise  window.  Then  I  must  jump 
out,  forsooth.  "  Brown,  shall  I  give  you  a  hand  with 
the  luggage?"  says  I,  and  I  dare  say  they  all  laugh. 
Well,  I  am  so  happy  that  anybody  may  laugh  who  likes. 
The  Doctor  comes  out,  his  precious  box  under  his  arm. 
I  see  dear  Mrs.  Barnard's  great  cap  nodding  at  us  out 
of  the  parlour  window  as  we  drive  away  from  the  Rec- 
tory door  to  stop  a  hundred  yards  farther  on  at  the 
Priory. 

There  at  the  parlour  window  stands  my  dear  little 
Agnes,  in  a  white  frock,  in  a  great  cap  with  a  blue  riband 
and  bow,  and  curls  clustering  over  her  face.  I  wish 
Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  had  painted  thee  in  those  days, 
my  dear:  but  thou  wert  the  very  image  of  one  of  his 
little  ladies,  that  one  who  became  Duchess  of  Buccleuch 
afterwards.  There  is  my  Agnes,  and  now  presently 
comes  out  Mr.  Weston's  man  and  luggage,  and  it  is 
fixed  on  the  roof.  Him,  his  master,  Mr.  George  Wes- 
ton, follows.  This  was  the  most  good-natured  of  the 
two,  and  I  shall  never  forget  my  sensation  of  delight, 
when  I  saw  him  bring  out  two  holster-pistols,  which  he 
placed  each  in  a  pocket  of  the  chaise.  Is  Tommy  Chap- 
man, the  apothecary's  son  of  Westgate,  alive  yet,  and 
does  he  remember  my  wagging  my  head  to  him  as  our 
chaise  whirled  by?  He  was  shaking  a  mat  at  the  door 
of  his  father's  shop  as  my  lordship  accompanied  by  my 
noble  friends  passed  by. 

First   stage.    Ham    Street,     "  The    Bear."     A  grey 


I  HEAR  THE  SOUND  OF  BOW  BELLS     99 

horse  and  a  bay  to  change,  I  remember  them.  Second 
stage,  Ashford.  Third  stage  ....  I  think  I  am 
asleep  about  the  third  stage:  and  no  wonder,  a  poor 
httle  wretch  who  had  been  awake  half  the  night  before, 
and  no  doubt  many  nights  previous,  thinking  of  this 
wonderful  journey.  Fourth  stage,  Maidstone,  "  The 
Bell."  "And  here  we  will  stop  to  dinner,  Master 
Shrimpcatcher,"  says  the  Doctor,  and  I  jump  down 
out  of  the  carriage  nothing  loth.  The  Doctor  followed 
with  his  box,  of  which  he  never  lost  sight. 

The  Doctor  liked  his  ease  in  his  inn,  and  took  his  sip 
of  punch  so  comfortably,  that  I,  for  my  part,  thought 
he  never  would  be  gone.  I  was  out  in  the  stables  and 
looking  at  the  horses,  and  talking  to  the  ostler  who  was 
rubbing  his  nags  down.  I  dare  say  I  had  a  peep  into 
the  kitchen,  and  at  the  pigeons  in  the  inn  yard,  and  at 
all  things  which  were  to  be  seen  at  "  The  Bell,"  while  my 
two  companions  were  still  at  their  interminable  punch. 
It  was  an  old-fashioned  inn,  with  a  gallery  round  the 
court-yard.  Heaven  bless  us!  Falstaff  and  Bardolj)h 
may  have  stopped  there  on  the  road  to  Gadshill.  I  was 
in  the  stable  looking  at  the  nags,  when  Mr.  Weston 
comes  out  of  the  inn,  looks  round  the  court,  opens  the 
door  of  the  postchaise,  takes  out  his  pistols,  looks  at  the 
priming,  and  puts  them  back  again.  Then  we  are  off 
again,  and  time  enough  too.  It  seemed  to  me  many 
hours  since  we  had  arrived  at  that  creaking  old  "  Bell." 
And  away  we  go  through  Addington,  Eynesford,  by 
miles  and  miles  of  hop-gardens.  I  dare  say  I  did  not 
look  at  the  prospect  much,  beautiful  though  it  might  be, 
my  young  eyes  being  for  ever  on  the  look-out  for  St. 
Paul's  and  London. 

For  a  great  part  of  the  way  Doctor  Barnard  and  his 


100  DENIS  DUVAL 

companion  had  a  fine  controversy  about  their  respective 
rehgions,  for  which  each  was  ahke  zealous.  Nay:  it 
may  be  the  rector  invited  Mr.  Weston  to  take  a  place  in 
his  postchaise  in  order  to  have  this  battle,  for  he  never 
tired  of  arguing  the  question  between  the  two  churches. 
Towards  the  close  of  the  day  Master  Denis  Duval  fell 
asleep  on  Dr.  Barnard's  shoulder,  and  the  good-natured 
clergyman  did  not  disturb  him. 

I  woke  up  with  the  sudden  stoppage  of  the  carriage. 
The  evening  was  falling.  We  were  upon  a  lonely  com- 
mon, and  a  man  on  horseback  was  at  the  window  of  the 
postchaise. 

"Give  us  out  that  there  box!  and  your  money!"  I 
heard  him  say  in  a  very  gruff  voice.  O  heavens!  we 
were  actually  stopped  by  a  highwayman!  It  was  de- 
lightful. 

Mr.  Weston  jumped  at  his  pistols  very  quick. 
"Here's  our  money,  you  scoundrel!"  says  he,  and  he 
fired  point-blank  at  the  rogue's  head.  Confusion !  The 
pistol  missed  fire.  He  aimed  the  second,  and  again  no 
report  followed! 

"  Some  scoundrel  has  been  tampering  with  these," 
says  Mr.  Weston,  aghast. 

"Come,"  says  Captain  Macheath,  "come,  your — " 

But  the  next  word  the  fellow  spoke  was  a  frightful 
oath;  for  I  took  out  my  little  pistol,  which  was  full  of 
shot,  and  fired  it  into  his  face.  The  man  reeled,  and  I 
thought  would  have  fallen  out  of  his  saddle.  The  pos- 
tilion, frightened  no  doubt,  clapped  spurs  to  his  horse, 
and  began  to  gallop.  "  Shan't  we  stop  and  take  that 
rascal,  sir?"  said  I  to  the  Doctor.  On  which  Mr. 
Weston  gave  a  peevish  kind  of  push  at  me,  and  said, 
"  No,  no.    It  is  getting  quite  dark.    Let  us  push  on." 


I  HEAR  THE  SOUND  OF  BOW  BELLS  101 

And,  indeed,  the  highwayman's  horse  had  taken  fright, 
and  we  could  see  him  galloping  away  across  the  com- 
mon. 

I  was  so  elated  to  think  that  I,  a  little  boy,  had  shot 
a  live  highwayman,  that  I  daresay  I  bragged  outra- 
geously of  my  action.  We  set  down  INIr.  Weston  at  his 
inn  in  the  Borough,  and  crossed  London  Bridge,  and 
there  I  was  in  London  at  last.  Yes,  and  that  was  the 
Monument,  and  then  we  came  to  the  Exchange,  and 
yonder,  yonder  was  St.  Paul's.  We  went  up  Holborn, 
and  so  to  Ormond  Street,  where  my  patron  lived  in  a 
noble  mansion;  and  w^here  his  wife,  my  Lady  Denis, 
received  me  with  a  great  deal  of  kindness.  You  may 
be  sure  the  battle  with  the  highwayman  was  fought  over 
again,  and  I  got  due  credit  from  myself  and  others  for 
my  gallantry. 

Sir  Peter  and  his  lady  introduced  me  to  a  number 
of  their  acquaintances  as  the  little  boy  who  shot  the 
highwayman.  They  received  a  great  deal  of  compan5% 
and  I  was  frequently  had  in  to  their  dessert.  I  suppose 
I  must  own  that  my  home  was  below  in  the  housekeeper's 
room  with  Mrs.  Jellicoe;  but  my  lady  took  such  a  fancy 
to  me  that  she  continually  had  me  upstairs,  took  me  out 
driving  in  her  chariot,  or  ordered  one  of  the  footmen 
to  take  me  to  the  sights  of  the  town,  and  sent  me  in  his 
charge  to  the  play.  It  was  the  last  year  Garrick  per- 
formed; and  I  saw  him  in  the  play  of  JNIacbeth,  in  a 
gold-laced  blue  coat,  with  scarlet  plush  waistcoat  and 
breeches.  Ormond  Street,  Bloomsbury,  w^as  on  the  out- 
skirts of  the  town  then,  with  open  country  behind, 
stretching  as  far  as  Hampstead.  Bedford  House,  north 
of  Bloomsbury  Square,  with  splendid  gardens,  was  close 
by,  and  Montague  House,  where  I  saw  stuffed  camel- 


102  DENIS  DUVAL 

opards,  and  all  sorts  of  queer  things  from  foreign 
countries.  Then  there  were  the  Tower,  and  the  Wax- 
work, and  Westminster  Abbey,  and  Vauxhall.  What 
a  glorious  week  of  pleasure  it  was!  At  the  week's  end 
the  kind  Doctor  went  home  again,  and  all  those  dear 
kind  people  gave  me  presents,  and  cakes,  and  money, 
and  spoilt  the  little  boy  who  shot  the  highwayman. 

The  affair  was  actually  put  into  the  newspapers,  and 
who  should  come  to  hear  of  it  but  my  gracious  Sovereign 
himself.  One  day,  Sir  Peter  Denis  took  me  to  see  Kew 
Gardens  and  the  new  Chinese  pagoda  her  INIajesty  had 
put  up.  Whilst  walking  here,  and  surveying  this  pretty 
place,  I  had  the  good  fortune  to  see  his  M-j-sty,  walk- 
ing with  our  most  gracious  Qu — n,  the  Pr-nce  of  W — s, 
the  BisJiop  of  Osnahurg,  my  namesake,  and,  I  think, 
two,  or  it  may  be  three,  of  the  Princesses.  Her  M-j-sty 
knew  Sir  Peter  from  having  sailed  with  him,  saluted 
him  very  graciously,  and  engaged  him  in  conversation. 
And  the  Best  of  Monarchs,  looking  towards  his  humblest 
subject  and  servant,  said,  "What,  what?  Little  boy 
shot  the  highwayman.  Shot  him  in  the  face.  Shot 
him  in  the  face!"  On  which  the  youthful  Pr-nces  gra- 
ciously looked  towards  me,  and  the  King  asking  Sir 
Peter  what  my  profession  was  to  be,  the  admiral  said 
I  hoped  to  be  a  sailor  and  serve  his  Majesty. 

I  promise  you  I  was  a  mighty  grand  personage  when 
I  went  home;  and  both  at  Rye  and  Winchelsea  scores 
of  people  asked  me  what  the  King  said.  On  our  return, 
we  heard  of  an  accident  which  had  happened  to  Mr. 
Joseph  Weston,  which  ended  most  unhappily  for  that 
gentleman.  On  the  very  day  when  we  set  out  for  Lon- 
don he  went  out  shooting — a  sport  of  which  he  was  very 
fond;  but  in  climbing  a  hedge,  and  dragging  his  gun 


I  HEAR  THE  SOUND  OF  BOW  BELLS  103 

incautiously  after  him,  the  lock  caught  in  a  twig,  and 
the  piece  discharged  itself  into  the  poor  gentleman's 
face,  lodging  a  number  of  shot  into  his  left  cheek,  and 
into  his  eye,  of  which  he  lost  the  sight,  after  suiFering 
much  pain  and  torture. 

" Bless  my  soul!  A  charge  of  small  shot  in  his  face! 
What  an  extraordinary  thing! "  cries  Dr.  Barnard,  who 
came  down  to  see  mother  and  grandfather  the  day  after 
our  return  home.  Mrs.  Barnard  had  told  him  of  the 
accident  at  supper  on  the  night  previous.  Had  he  been 
shot  or  shot  some  one  himself,  the  Doctor  could  scarce 
have  looked  more  scared.  He  put  me  in  mind  of  Mr. 
Garrick,  whom  I  had  just  seen  at  the  playhouse,  Lon- 
don, when  he  comes  out  after  murdering  the  King. 

"  You  look,  Docteur,  as  if  you  done  it  yourself,"  says 
M.  de  la  Motte,  laughing,  and  in  his  English  jargon. 
"  Two  time,  three  time,  I  say,  Weston,  you  shoot  you- 
self,  you  carry  you  gun  that  way,  and  he  say  he  not 
born  to  be  shot,  and  he  swear ! " 

"But,  my  good  Chevalier,  Doctor  Blades  picked 
some  bits  of  crape  out  of  his  eye,  and  thirteen  or 
fourteen  shot.  What  is  the  size  of  your  shot,  Denny, 
with  which  you  fired  at  the  highwayman?" 

"Quid  autem  vicles  festucam  in  oculo  fratris  tui, 
Doctor?"  says  the  Chevalier;  "that  is  good  doctrine- 
Protestant  or  Popish,  eh?"  On  which  the  Doctor  held 
down  his  head,  and  said,  "  Chevalier,  I  am  corrected;  I 
was  wrong — very  wrong." 

"And  as  for  crape,"  La  Motte  resumed,  "Weston 
is  in  mourning.  He  go  to  funeral  at  Canterbury  four 
days  ago.  Yes,  he  tell  me  so.  He  and  my  friend  Liit- 
terloh  go."  This  Mr.  Liitterloh  was  a  German  living 
near  Canterbury,  with  whom  M.  de  la  Motte  had  deal- 


104  DENIS  DUVAL 

ings.  He  had  dealings  with  all  sorts  of  people ;  and  very 
queer  dealings,  too,  as  I  hegan  to  understand  now  that 
I  was  a  stout  boy  approaching  fourteen  years  of  age, 
and  standing  pretty  tall  in  my  shoes. 

De  la  ]\Iotte  laughed  then  at  the  Doctor's  suspicions. 
"  Parsons  and  women  all  the  same,  save  your  respect, 
ma  bonne  Madame  Duval,  all  tell  tales;  all  believe  evil 
of  their  neighbours.  I  tell  you  I  see  Weston  shoot 
twenty,  thirty  time.  Always  drag  his  gun  through 
hedge." 

"But  the  crape-?" 

"  Bah!  Always  in  mourning,  Weston  is!  For  shame 
of  your  cancans,  little  Denis!  Never  think  such  thing 
again.  Don't  make  Weston  your  enemy.  If  a  man  say 
that  of  me,  I  would  shoot  him  myself,  parbleu! " 

"  But  if  he  has  done  it?  " 

" Parbleu!  I  would  shoot  him  so  much  ze  mor! "  says 
the  Chevalier,  with  a  stamp  of  his  foot.  And  the  first 
time  he  saw  me  alone  he  reverted  to  the  subject. 
"Listen,  Denisot!"  says  he:  "thou  becomest  a  great 
boy.  Take  my  counsel,  and  hold  thy  tongue.  This 
suspicion  against  Mr.  Joseph  is  a  monstrous  crime,  as 
well  as  a  folly.  A  man  say  that  of  me — right  or  wrong 
—  I  burn  him  the  brain.  Once  I  come  home,  and  you 
rim  against  me,  and  I  cry  out,  and  swear  and  pest.  I 
was  wounded  myself,  I  deny  it  not." 

"And  I  said  nothing,  sir,"  I  interposed. 

"No,  I  do  thee  justice:  thou  didst  say  nothing.  You 
know  the  metier  we  make  sometimes?  That  night  in 
the  boat"  {'' zat  night  in  ze  boat,"  he  used  to  say), 
"  when  the  revenue  cutter  fire,  and  your  poor  camarade 
howl — ah,  how  he  howl — you  don't  suppose  we  were 
there  to  look  for  lobstarepot,  eh?    Tu  n'as  pas  bronche, 


I  HEAR  THE  SOUND  OF  BOW  BELLS  105 

toi.  You  did  not  crane;  you  show  yourself  a  man  of 
heart.  And  now,  petit,  apprends  a  te  taire!"  And  he 
gave  me  a  shake  of  the  hand,  and  a  couple  of  guineas 
in  it  too,  and  went  off  to  his  stables  on  his  business.  He 
had  two  or  three  horses  now,  and  was  always  on  the 
trot;  he  was  very  liberal  with  his  money,  and  used  to 
have  handsome  entertainments  in  his  uj^stairs  room, 
and  never  quarrelled  about  the  bills  which  mother 
sent  in.  "  Hold  thy  tongue,  Denisot,"  said  he.  "  Never 
tell  who  comes  in  or  who  goes  out.  And  mind  thee, 
child,  if  thy  tongue  wags,  little  birds  come  whisper  me, 
and  say, '  He  tell.'  " 

I  tried  to  obey  his  advice,  and  to  rein  in  that  truant 
tongue  of  mine.  When  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Barnard  them- 
selves asked  me  questions  I  was  mum,  and  perhaps 
rather  disappointed  the  good  lady  and  the  rector  too  by 
my  reticence.  For  instance,  Mrs.  Barnard  would  say, 
"  That  was  a  nice  goose  I  saw  going  from  market  to 
your  house,  Denny." 

"  Goose  is  very  nice,  ma'am,"  says  I. 

"  The  Chevalier  often  has  dinners? " 

"  Dines  every  day,  regular,  ma'am." 

"  Sees  the  Westons  a  great  deal? " 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  I  say,  with  an  indescribable  heart- 
pang.  And  the  cause  of  that  pang  I  may  as  well  tell. 
You  see,  though  I  w^as  only  thirteen  years  old,  and 
Agnes  but  eight,  I  loved  that  little  maid  with  all  my 
soul  and  strength.  Boy  or  man  I  never  loved  any  other 
woman.  I  write  these  very  words  by  my  study  fire  in 
Fareport  with  madam  opposite  dozing  over  her  novel 
till  the  neighbours  shall  come  in  to  tea  and  their  rubber. 
When  my  ink  is  run  out,  and  my  little  tale  is  written, 
and   yonder   church   that   is   ringing  to  seven   o'clock 


106  DENIS  DUVAL 

prayer  shall  toll  for  a  certain  D.D.,  you  will  please, 
good  neighbours,  to  remember  that  I  never  loved  any 
but  yonder  lady,  and  keep  a  place  by  Darby  for  Joan, 
when  her  turn  shall  arrive. 

Now  in  the  last  year  or  two,  since  she  had  been 
adopted  at  the  Priory,  Agnes  came  less  and  less  often 
to  see  us.  She  did  not  go  to  church  with  us,  being  a 
Catholic.  She  learned  from  the  good  fathers  her  tutors. 
She  learned  music  and  French  and  dancing  to  perfec- 
tion. All  the  county  could  not  show  a  finer  little 
lady.  When  she  came  to  our  shop,  it  was  indeed  a  lit- 
tle countess  honouring  us  with  a  visit.  Mother  was  gen- 
tle before  her — grandfather  obsequious — I,  of  course, 
her  most  humble  little  servant.  Wednesday  (a  half- 
holiday),  and  half  Saturday,  and  all  Sunday  I  might 
come  home  from  school,  and  how  I  used  to  trudge,  and 
how  I  longed  to  see  that  little  maiden,  any  gentleman 
may  imagine  who  has  lost  his  heart  to  an  Agnes  of 
his  own. 

The  first  day  of  my  arrival  at  home,  after  the  mem- 
orable London  journey,  I  presented  myself  at  the 
Priory,  with  my  pocket  full  of  presents  for  Agnes.  The 
footman  let  me  into  the  hall  civilly  enough:  but  the 
young  lady  was  out  with  Mrs.  Weston  in  the  postchaise. 
I  might  leave  my  message. 

I  wanted  to  give  my  message.  Somehow,  in  that  fort- 
night's absence  from  home,  I  had  so  got  to  long  after 
Agnes  that  I  never  had  my  little  sweetheart  quite  out 
of  my  mind.  It  may  have  been  a  silly  thing,  but  I  got 
a  little  pocket-book,  and  wrote  in  French  a  journal  of 
all  I  saw  in  London.  I  dare  say  there  were  some  pretty 
faults  in  grammar.  I  remember  a  fine  paragraph  about 
my  meeting  the  royal  personages  at  Kew,  and  all  their 


I  HEAR  THE  SOUND  OF  BOW  BELLS  107 

names  written  down  in  order ;  and  this  little  pocket-book 
I  must  needs  send  to  Mademoiselle  de  Saverne. 

The  next  day  I  called  again.  Still  Mademoiselle  de 
Saverne  was  not  to  be  seen:  but  in  the  evening  a  servant 
brought  a  little  note  from  her,  in  which  she  thanked  her 
dear  brother  for  his  beautiful  book.  That  was  some 
consolation.  She  liked  the  pocket-book,  anyhow.  I 
wonder,  can  you  young  people  guess  what  I  did  to  it 
before  I  sent  it  away?  Yes,  I  did.  *' One,  tree,  feefty 
time,"  as  the  Chevalier  would  say.  The  next  morning, 
quite  early,  I  had  to  go  back  to  school,  having  promised 
the  Doctor  to  work  hard  after  my  holiday;  and  work 
I  did  with  a  will,  at  my  French  and  my  English,  and 
my  Navigation.  I  thought  Saturday  would  never  come: 
but  it  did  at  last,  and  I  trotted  as  quick  as  legs  would 
carry  me  from  school  to  Winchelsea.  My  legs  were 
growing  apace  now;  and  especially  as  they  took  me 
homewards,  few  could  outrun  them. 

All  good  women  are  match-makers  at  heart.  My 
dear  Mrs.  Barnard  saw  quite  soon  what  my  condition 
of  mind  was,  and  was  touched  by  my  boyish  fervour.  I 
called  once,  twice,  thrice,  at  the  Priory,  and  never  could 
get  a  sight  of  Miss  Agnes.  The  servant  used  to  shrug 
his  shoulders  and  laugh  at  me  in  an  insolent  way,  and 
the  last  time  said—"  You  need  not  call  any  more.  We 
don't  want  our  hair  cut  here,  nor  no  pomatum,  nor  no 
soap,  do  you  understand  that?"  and  he  slammed  the 
door  in  my  face.  I  was  stunned  by  this  insolence,  and 
beside  myself  with  rage  and  mortification.  I  went  to 
Mrs.  Barnard,  and  told  her  what  had  happened  to  me. 
I  burst  into  tears  of  passion  and  grief  as  I  flung  myself 
on  a  sofa  by  the  good  ladies.  I  told  her  how  I  had  res- 
cued little  Agnes,  how  I  loved  the  little  thing  better  than 


108  DENIS  DUVAL 

all  the  world.  I  spoke  my  heart  out,  and  eased  it  some- 
what, for  the  good  lady  wiped  her  eyes  more  than  once, 
and  finished  by  giving  me  a  kiss.  She  did  more ;  she  in- 
vited me  to  tea  with  her  on  the  next  Wednesday  when 
I  came  home  from  school,  and  who  should  be  there  but 
little  Agnes.  She  blushed  very  much.  Then  she  came 
towards  me.  Then  she  held  up  her  little  cheek  to  be 
kissed,  and  then  she  cried — oh,  how  she  did  cry!  There 
were  three  people  whimpering  in  that  room.  (How 
well  1  recollect  it  opening  into  the  garden,  and  the  little 
old  blue  dragon  teacups  and  silver  pot!)  There  were 
three  persons,  I  say,  crying:  a  lady  of  fifty,  a  boy  of 
thirteen,  and  a  little  girl  of  seven  years  of  age.  Can 
you  guess  what  happened  next?  Of  course  the  lady  of 
fifty  remembered  that  she  had  forgotten  her  spectacles, 
and  went  upstairs  to  fetch  them;  and  then  the  little 
maiden  began  to  open  her  heart  to  me,  and  told  her  dear 
Denny  how  she  had  been  longing  to  see  him,  and  how 
they  were  very  angry  with  him  at  the  Priory;  so  angry 
that  his  name  was  never  to  be  spoken.  "  The  Chevalier 
said  that,  and  so  did  the  gentlemen — especially  Mr. 
Joseph,  who  had  been  dreadful  since  his  accident,  and 
one  day  (says  my  dear)  when  you  called,  he  was  behind 
the  door  with  a  great  horse-whip,  and  said  he  would  let 
you  in,  and  flog  your  soul  out  of  your  body,  only  Mrs. 
Weston  cried,  and  Mr.  George  said,  '  Don't  be  a  fool, 
Joe.'  But  something  you  have  done  to  Mr.  Joseph, 
dear  Dennj^  and  when  your  name  is  mentioned,  he 
rages  and  swears  so  that  it  is  dreadful  to  hear  him. 
What  can  make  the  gentleman  so  angry  with  you? " 

"  So  he  actually  was  waiting  with  a  horse-whip,  was 
he?  In  that  case  I  know  what  I  would  do.  I  would 
never  go  about  without  my  pistol.    I  have  hit  one  fel- 


I  HEAR  THE  SOUND  OF  BOW  BELLS  109 

low,"  said  I,  "  and  if  any  other  man  threatens  me  I  will 
defend  myself." 

JNIy  dear  Agnes  said  that  they  were  very  kind  to  her 
at  the  Priory,  although  she  could  not  bear  a\Ir.  Joseph 
— that  they  gave  her  good  masters,  that  she  was  to  go  to 
a  good  school  kept  by  a  Catholic  lady  at  Arundel.  And 
oh,  how  she  wished  her  Denny  would  turn  Catholic,  and 
she  prayed  for  him  always,  always !  And  for  that  mat- 
ter I  know  some  one  who  never  night  or  morning  on 
his  knees  has  forgotten  that  little  maiden.  The  father 
used  to  come  and  give  her  lessons  three  or  four  times 
in  the  week,  and  she  used  to  learn  her  lessons  by  heart, 
walking  up  and  down  in  the  great  green  walk  in  the 
kitchen-garden  every  morning  at  eleven  o'clock.  I 
knew  the  kitchen-garden!  the  wall  was  in  North  Lane, 
one  of  the  old  walls  of  the  convent:  at  the  end  of  the 
green  walk  there  was  a  pear-tree.  And  that  was  where 
she  always  went  to  learn  her  lessons. 

And  here,  I  suppose,  Mrs.  Barnard  returned  to  the 
room,  having  found  her  spectacles.  And  as  I  take 
mine  off  my  nose  and  shut  my  eyes,  that  well-remem- 
bered scene  of  boyhood  passes  before  them — that 
garden  basking  in  the  autumn  evening — that  little 
maiden  with  peachy  cheeks,  and  glistening  curls,  that 
dear  and  kind  old  lady,  who  says,  "  'Tis  time  now,  chil- 
dren, you  should  go  home." 

I  had  to  go  to  school  that  night ;  but  before  I  went  I 
ran  up  North  Lane  and  saw  the  old  wall  and  the  pear- 
tree  behind  it.  And  do  you  know  I  thought  I  would 
try  and  get  up  the  wall,  and  easy  enough  it  was  to  find 
a  footing  between  those  crumbling  old  stones ;  and  when 
on  the  top  I  could  look  down  from  the  branches  of  the 
tree  into  the  garden  below,  and  see  the  house  at  the 


110  DENIS  DUVAL 

farther  end.  So  that  was  the  broad  walk  where  Agnes 
learned  her  lessons?  Master  Denis  Duval  pretty  soon 
had  that  lesson  by  heart. 

Yes:  but  one  day  in  the  Christmas  holidays,  when 
there  was  a  bitter  frost,  and  the  stones  and  the  wall  were 
so  slippery  that  Mr.  D.  D.  tore  his  fingers  and  his  small 
clothes  in  climbing  to  his  point  of  observation,  it  hap- 
pened that  little  Agnes  was  not  sitting  under  the  tree 
learning  her  lessons,  and  none  but  an  idiot  would  have 
supposed  that  she  would  have  come  out  on  such  a  day. 

But  who  should  be  in  the  garden,  pacing  up  and  down 
the  walk  all  white  with  hoar-frost,  but  Joseph  Weston 
with  his  patch  over  his  eye.  Unluckily  he  had  one  eye 
left  with  which  he  saw  me ;  and  the  next  moment  I  heard 
the  report  of  a  tremendous  oath,  and  then  a  brickbat 
came  whizzing  at  my  head,  so  close  that,  had  it  struck 
me,  it  would  have  knocked  out  my  eye,  and  my  brains 
too. 

I  was  down  the  wall  in  a  moment:  it  was  slippery 
enough;  and  two  or  three  more  brickbats  came  a  mon 
adresse,  but  luckily  failed  to  hit  their  mark. 


CHAPTER  VI 

I  ESCAPE  FROM  A  GREAT  DANGER 

I  SPOKE  of  the  aiFair  of  the  brickbats,  at  home,  to 
Monsieur  de  la  Motte  only,  not  caring  to  tell  mo- 
ther, lest  she  should  be  inclined  to  resume  her  box-on-the- 
ear  practice,  for  which  I  thought  I  was  growing  too  old. 
Indeed,  I  had  become  a  great  boy.  There  were  not  half- 
a-dozen  out  of  the  sixty  at  Pocock's  who  could  beat  me 
when  I  was  thirteen  years  old,  and  from  these  champions, 
were  they  ever  so  big,  I  never  would  submit  to  a  thrash- 
ing, without  a  fight  on  my  part,  in  which,  though  I 
might  get  the  worst,  I  was  pretty  sure  to  leave  some  ugly 
marks  on  my  adversary's  nose  and  eyes.  I  remember 
one  lad  especially,  Tom  Parrot  by  name,  who  was  three 
years  older  than  myself,  and  whom  I  could  no  more  beat 
than  a  frigate  can  beat  a  seventy-four;  but  we  engaged 
nevertheless,  and,  after  we  had  had  some  rounds  to- 
gether, Tom  put  one  hand  in  his  pocket,  and,  with  a 
queer  face  and  a  great  black  eye  I  had  given  him,  says— 
"Well,  Denny,  I  could  do  it— you  know  I  could:  but 
I'm  so  lazy,  I  don't  care  about  going  on."  And  one  of 
the  bottle-holders  beginning  to  jeer,  Tom  fetches  him 
such  a  rap  on  the  ear,  that  I  promise  you  he  showed  no 
inclination  for  laughing  afterwards.  By  the  way,  that 
knowledge  of  the  noble  art  of  fisticuffs  which  I  learned 
at  school,  I  had  to  practise  at  sea  presently,  in  the  cock- 
pit of  more  than  one  of  his  Majesty's  ships  of  war. 

Ill 


112  DENIS  DUVAL 

In  respect  of  the  slapping  and  caning  at  home,  I  think 
M.  de  la  Motte  remonstrated  with  my  mother,  and  repre- 
sented to  her  that  I  was  now  too  old  for  that  kind  of 
treatment.  Indeed,  when  I  was  fourteen,  I  was  as  tall 
as  grandfather,  and  in  a  tussle  I  am  sure  I  could  have 
tripped  his  old  heels  up  easily  enough,  and  got  the  better 
of  him  in  five  minutes.  Do  I  speak  of  him  with  undue 
familiarity?  I  pretend  no  love  for  him;  I  never  could 
have  any  respect.  Some  of  his  practices  which  I  knew 
of  made  me  turn  from  him,  and  his  loud  professions  only 
increased  my  distrust.  Monsieur  mon  fils,  if  ever  you 
marry,  and  have  a  son,  I  hope  the  little  chap  will  have  an 
honest  man  for  a  grandfather,  and  that  you  will  be  able 
to  say,  "  I  loved  him,"  when  the  daisies  cover  me. 

La  Motte,  then,  caused  "  the  abolition  of  torture  "  in 
our  house,  and  I  was  grateful  to  him.  I  had  the  queer- 
est feelings  towards  that  man.  He  was  a  perfect  fine 
gentleman  when  he  so  wished :  of  his  money  most  liberal, 
witty  (in  a  dry,  cruel  sort  of  way)  — most  tenderly  at- 
tached to  Agnes.  Eh  bien!  As  I  looked  at  his  yellow, 
handsome  face,  cold  shudders  would  come  over  me, 
though  at  this  time  I  did  not  know  that  Agnes's  father 
had  fallen  by  his  fatal  hand. 

When  I  informed  him  of  Mr.  Joe  Weston's  salute  of 
brickbats,  he  looked  very  grave.  And  I  told  him  then, 
too,  a  thing  which  had  struck  me  most  forcibly— viz.  that 
the  shout  which  Weston  gave,  and  the  oath  which  he 
uttered  when  he  saw  me  on  the  wall,  were  precisely  like 
the  oath  and  execration  uttered  by  the  man  with  the 
craped  face,  at  whom  I  fired  from  the  postchaise. 

"Bah,  betise!"  says  La  Motte.  "What  didst  thou 
on  the  wall?    One  does  not  steal  pears  at  thy  age." 

I  dare  say  I  turned  red.    "  I  heard  somebody's  voice," 


I   ESCAPE   FROM   A   GREAT    DANGER  113 

I  said.  "  In  fact,  I  heard  Agnes  singing  in  the  garden, 
and — and  I  got  on  the  wall  to  see  her." 

"  What,  you— you,  a  little  barber's  boy,  climb  a  wall 
to  speak  to  JMademoiselle  Agnes  de  Saverne,  of  one  of 
the  most  noble  houses  of  Lorraine?"  La  Motte  yelled, 
with  a  savage  laugh.  "  Parbleu!  Monsieur  Weston  has 
well  done!" 

"  Sir!"  said  I,  in  a  towering  rage,  "barber  as  I  am, 
my  fathers  were  honourable  Protestant  clergymen  in 
Alsace,  and  we  are  as  good  as  highwaymen  at  any  rate! 
Barber,  indeed! "  I  say  again.  "And  now  I  am  ready  to 
swear  that  the  man  who  swore  at  me,  and  the  man  I  shot 
on  the  road,  are  one  and  the  same;  and  I'll  go  to  Dr. 
Barnard's,  and  swear  it  before  him! " 

The  Chevalier  looked  aghast,  and  threatening  for 
awhile.  "  Tu  me  menaces,  je  crois,  petit  manant! "  says 
he,  grinding  his  teeth.  "  This  is  too  strong.  Listen, 
Denis  Duval!  Hold  thy  tongue,  or  evil  will  come  to 
thee.  Thou  wilt  make  for  thyself  enemies  the  most  un- 
scrupulous, and  the  most  terrible — do  you  hear?  I  have 
placed  Mademoiselle  Agnes  de  Saverne  w^ith  that  admir- 
able woman,  Mistriss  Weston, because  she  can  meet  at  the 
Priory  with  society  more  fitting  her  noble  birth  than  that 
which  she  will  find  under  your  grandfather's  pole — par- 
bleu. Ah,  you  dare  mount  on  wall  to  look  for  Mademoi- 
selle de  Saverne?  Gare  aux  manstraps,  mon  gar9on! 
Vive  Dieu,  if  I  see  thee  on  that  wall,  I  will  fire  on  thee, 
moi  le  premier!  You  pretend  to  INIademoiselle  Agnes. 
Ha!  ha!  ha!"  And  he  grinned  and  looked  like  that 
cloven-footed  gentleman  of  whom  Dr.  Barnard  talked. 

I  felt  that  henceforward  there  was  war  between  La 
Motte  and  me.  At  this  time  I  had  suddenly  shot  up  to 
be  a  young  man,  and  was  not  the  obedient,  prattling 


114  DENIS  DUVAL 

child  of  last  year.  I  told  grandfather  that  I  would  bear 
no  more  punishment,  such  as  the  old  man  had  been  ac- 
customed to  bestow  upon  me ;  and  once  when  my  mother 
lifted  her  hand,  I  struck  it  up,  and  griped  it  so  tight  that 
I  frightened  her.  From  that  very  day  she  never  raised 
a  hand  to  me.  Nay,  I  think  she  was  not  ill-pleased,  and 
soon  actually  began  to  spoil  me.  Nothing  was  too  good 
for  me.  I  know  where  the  silk  came  from  which  made 
my  fine  new  waistcoat,  and  the  cambric  for  my  ruffled 
shirts,  but  very  much  doubt  whether  they  ever  paid  any 
duty.  As  I  walked  to  church,  I  dare  say  I  cocked  my 
hat,  and  strutted  very  consequentially.  When  Tom  Billis, 
the  baker's  boy,  jeered  at  my  fine  clothes,  "  Tom,"  says 
I,  "  I  will  take  my  coat  and  waistcoat  off  for  half  an 
hour  on  Monday,  and  give  thee  a  beating  if  thou  hast  a 
mind;  but  to-day  let  us  be  at  peace,  and  go  to  church." 
On  the  matter  of  church  I  am  not  going  to  make  any 
boast.  That  awful  subject  lies  between  a  man  and  his 
conscience.  I  have  known  men  of  lax  faith  pure  and 
just  in  their  lives,  as  I  have  met  very  loud-professing 
Christians  loose  in  their  morality,  and  hard  and  unjust 
in  their  dealings.  There  was  a  little  old  man  at  home — 
heaven  help  him!— who  was  of  this  sort,  and  who,  when 
I  came  to  know  his  life,  would  put  me  into  such  a  rage  of 
revolt  whilst  preaching  his  daily  and  nightly  sermons, 
that  it  is  a  wonder  I  was  not  enlisted  among  the  scoffers 
and  evil-doers  altogether.  I  have  known  many  a  young 
man  fall  away,  and  become  utterly  reprobate,  because  the 
bond  of  discipline  was  tied  too  tightly  upon  him,  and 
because  he  has  found  the  preacher  who  was  perpetually 
prating  over  him  lax  in  his  own  conduct.  I  am  thankful, 
then,  that  I  had  a  better  instructor  than  my  old  grand- 
father with  his  strap  and  his  cane;  and  was  brought  (I 


I   ESCAPE   FROM   A   GREAT   DANGER  115 

hope  and  trust)  to  a  right  state  of  thinking  by  a  man 
whose  brain  was  wise,  as  his  Hfe  was  excellently  benevo- 
lent and  pure.  This  was  my  good  friend  Dr.  Barnard, 
and  to  this  day  I  remember  the  conversations  I  had  with 
him,  and  am  quite  sure  they  influenced  my  future  life. 
Had  I  been  altogether  reckless  and  as  lawless  as  many 
people  of  our  acquaintance  and  neighbourhood,  he  would 
have  ceased  to  feel  any  interest  in  me;  and  instead  of 
wearing  his  JNIajesty's  epaulets  (which  I  trust  I  have  not 
disgraced),  I  might  have  been  swabbing  a  smuggler's 
boat,  or  riding  in  a  night  caravan,  with  kegs  beside  me 
and  pistols  and  cutlasses  to  defend  me,  as  that  unlucky 
La  Motte  owned  for  his  part  that  he  had  done.  ]\Iy  good 
mother,  though  she  gave  up  the  practice  of  smuggling, 
never  could  see  the  harm  in  it ;  but  looked  on  it  as  a  game 
where  you  played  your  stake,  and  lost  or  won  it.  She 
ceased  to  play,  not  because  it  was  wrong,  but  it  was  ex- 
pedient no  more ;  and  Mr.  Denis,  her  son,  was  the  cause 
of  her  giving  up  this  old  trade. 

For  me,  I  thankfully  own  that  I  was  taught  to  see  the 
matter  in  a  graver  light,  not  only  by  our  Doctor's  ser- 
mons (two  or  three  of  which,  on  the  text  of  "  Render 
unto  Csesar,"  he  preached,  to  the  rage  of  a  great  number 
of  his  congregation),  but  by  many  talks  which  he  had 
with  me;  when  he  showed  me  that  I  was  in  the  wrong 
to  break  the  laws  of  my  country  to  which  I  owed  obedi- 
ence, as  did  every  good  citizen.  He  knew  (though  he 
never  told  me,  and  his  reticence  in  this  matter  was  surely 
very  kind)  that  my  poor  father  had  died  of  wounds  re- 
ceived in  a  smuggling  encounter ;  but  he  showed  me  how 
such  a  life  must  be  loose,  lawless,  secret,  and  wicked; 
must  bring  a  man  amongst  desperate  companions,  and 
compel  him  to  resist  Csesar's  lawful  authority  by  re- 


116  DENIS  DUVAL 

bellion,  and  possibly  murder.  "  To  thy  mother  I  have 
used  other  arguments,  Denny,  my  boy,"  he  said,  very 
kindly.  "  I  and  the  Admiral  want  to  make  a  gentleman 
of  thee.  Thy  old  grandfather  is  rich  enough  to  help  us 
if  he  chooses.  I  won't  stop  to  inquire  too  strictly  where 
all  his  money  came  from ;  ^  but  'tis  clear  we  cannot  make 
a  gentleman  of  a  smuggler's  boy,  who  may  be  trans- 
ported any  da}^  or,  in  case  of  armed  resistance,  may  * 

be "    And  here  my  good  Doctor  puts  his  hand  to  his 

ear,  and  indicates  the  punishment  for  piracy  which  was 
very  common  in  my  young  time.  "  My  Denny  does  not 
want  to  ride  with  a  crape  over  his  face,  and  fire  pistols 
at  revenue  officers!  No!  I  pray  you  will  ever  show  an 
honest  countenance  to  the  world.  You  will  render  unto 
Ceesar  the  things  which  are  Caesar's  and — the  rest,  my 
child,  you  know." 

Now,  I  remarked  about  this  man,  that  when  he  ap- 
proached a  certain  subject,  an  involuntary  awe  came  over 
him,  and  he  hushed  as  it  were  at  the  very  idea  of  that 
sacred  theme.  It  was  very  diiFerent  with  poor  grand- 
father prating  his  sermons  ( and  with  some  other  pastors 
I  have  heard),  who  used  this  Name  as  familiarly  as  any 
other,  and  ....  but  who  am  I  to  judge?  and,  my  poor 
old  grandfather,  is  there  any  need  at  this  distance  of 
time  that  I  should  be  picking  out  the  trahem  in  oculo  tuo? 
....  Howbeit,  on  that  night,  as  I  was  walking  home 
after  drinking  tea  with  my  dear  Doctor,  I  made  a  vow 
that  I  would  strive  henceforth  to  lead  an  honest  life; 
that  my  tongue  should  speak  the  truth,  and  my  hand 
should  be  sullied  by  no  secret  crime.  And  as  I  spoke  I 
saw  my  dearest  little  maiden's  light  glimmering  in  her 
chamber,  and  the  stars  shining  overhead,  and  felt — who 
could  feel  more  bold  and  happy  than  I  ? 

^Eheu!  where  a  part  of  it  loent  to,  I  shall  have  to  say  presently.— D.  D. 


I   ESCAPE   FROM   A   GREAT   DANGER  117 

That  walk  schoolwards  by  West  Street  certainly  was 
a  detour.  I  might  have  gone  a  straighter  road,  but  then 
I  should  not  have  seen  a  certain  window:  a  little  twink- 
ling window  in  a  gable  of  the  Priory  House,  where  the 
light  used  to  be  popped  out  at  nine  o'clock.  T'other  day, 
when  we  took  over  the  King  of  France  to  Calais  (his 
Royal  Highness  the  Duke  of  Clarence  being  in  com- 
mand), I  must  needs  hire  a  postchaise  from  Dover,  to 
look  at  that  old  window  in  the  Priory  House  at  Win- 
chelsea.  I  went  through  the  old  tears,  despairs,  trage- 
dies. I  sighed  as  sentimentally,  after  forty  years,  as 
though  the  infandi  dolores  were  fresh  upon  me,  as 
though  I  were  the  schoolboy  trudging  back  to  his  task, 
and  taking  a  last  look  at  his  dearest  joy,  I  used  as  a  boy 
to  try  and  pass  that  window  at  nine,  and  I  know  a  prayer 
was  said  for  the  inhabitant  of  yonder  chamber.  She 
knew  my  holidays,  and  my  hours  of  going  to  school  and 
returning  thence.  If  my  little  maid  hung  certain  sig- 
nals in  that  window  (such  as  a  flower,  for  example,  to 
indicate  all  was  well,  a  cross-curtain,  and  so  forth),  I 
hope  she  practised  no  very  unjustifiable  stratagems. 
We  agreed  to  consider  that  she  was  a  prisoner  in  the 
hands  of  the  enemy ;  and  we  had  few  means  of  commu- 
nication save  these  simple  artifices,  which  are  allowed 
to  be  fair  in  love  and  war.  Monsieur  de  la  Motte  con- 
tinued to  live  at  our  house,  when  his  frequent  affairs  did 
not  call  him  away  thence;  but,  as  I  said,  few  words 
passed  between  us  after  that  angry  altercation  already 
described,  and  he  and  I  were  never  friends  again. 

He  warned  me  that  I  had  another  enemy,  and  facts 
strangely  confirmed  the  Chevalier's  warning.  One  Sun- 
day night,  as  I  was  going  to  school,  a  repetition  of  the 
brickbat  assault  was  made  upon  me,  and  this  time  the 
smart  cocked  hat  which  mother  had  given  me  came  in  for 


118  DENIS  DUVAL 

such  a  battering  as  effectually  spoiled  its  modish  shape. 
I  told  Dr.  Barnard  of  this  second  attempt,  and  the  good 
Doctor  was  not  a  little  puzzled.  He  began  to  think  that 
he  was  not  so  very  wrong  in  espying  a  beam  in  Joseph 
Weston's  eye.  We  agreed  to  keep  the  matter  quiet, 
however;  and  a  fortnight  after,  on  another  Sunday 
evening,  as  I  was  going  on  my  accustomed  route  to 
school,  whom  should  I  meet  but  the  Doctor  and  Mr. 
Weston  walking  together!  A  little  way  beyond  the 
town  gate  there  is  a  low  wall  round  a  field;  and  Dr.  Bar- 
nard, going  by  this  field  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  my 
usual  time  for  passing,  found  Mr.  Joseph  Weston  walk- 
ing there  behind  the  stone  enclosure ! 

"  Good-night,  Denny,"  says  the  Doctor,  when  he  and 
his  companion  met  me;  but  surly  Mr.  Weston  said  no- 
thing. "  Have  you  had  any  more  brickbats  at  your  head, 
my  boy? "  the  Rector  continued. 

I  said  I  was  not  afraid.  I  had  got  a  good  pistol,  and 
a  bullet  in  it  this  time. 

"He  shot  that  scoundrel  on  the  same  day  you  were 
shot,  Mr.  Weston,"  says  the  Doctor. 

"Did  he?"  growls  the  other. 

"And  your  gun  was  loaded  with  the  same-sized  shot 
which  Denis  used  to  pepper  Jiis  rascal,"  continues  the 
Doctor.  "  I  wonder  if  any  of  the  crape  went  into  the 
rascal's  wound?" 

"  Sir,"  said  Mr.  Weston,  with  an  oath,  "  what  do  you 
mean  for  to  hint? " 

"  The  very  oath  the  fellow  used  whom  Denny  hit 
when  your  brother  and  I  travelled  together.  I  am  sorry 
to  hear  you  use  the  language  of  such  scoundrels,  ]\Ir. 
Weston." 

"  If  you  dare  to  suspect  me  of  anything  unbecoming 


I   ESCAPE   FROM   A   GREAT   DANGER  119 

a  gentleman,  I'll  have  the  law  of  you,  Mr.  Parson,  that 
I  will! "  roars  the  other. 

"  Denis,  mon  gar9on,  tire  ton  pistolet  de  suite,  et  vise 
moi  bien  cet  homme  la,"  says  the  Doctor;  and  griping 
hold  of  Weston's  arm,  what  does  Dr.  Barnard  do  but 
plunge  his  hand  into  Weston's  pocket,  and  draw  thence 
another  pistol !  He  said  afterwards  he  saw  the  brass  butt 
sticking  out  of  Weston's  coat,  as  the  two  were  walking 
together. 

"What!"  shrieks  Mr.  Weston;  "is  that  young  mis- 
creant to  go  about  armed,  and  tell  everybody  he  will 
murder  me ;  and  ain't  I  for  to  defend  myself  ?  I  walk  in 
fear  of  my  life  for  him ! " 

"  You  seem  to  me  to  be  in  the  habit  of  travelling  with 
pistols,  Mr.  Weston,  and  you  know  when  people  pass 
sometimes  with  money  in  their  postchaises." 

"  You  scoundrel,  you— you  boy!  I  call  you  to  witness 
the  words  this  man  have  spoken.  He  have  insulted  me, 
and  libelled  me,  and  I'll  have  the  lor  on  him  as  sure  as  I 
am  born ! "  shouts  the  angry  man. 

"  Very  good,  Mr.  Joseph  Weston,"  replied  the  other 
fiercely.  "And  I  will  ask  Mr.  Blades,  the  surgeon,  to 
bring  the  shot  which  he  took  from  your  eye,  and  the 
scraps  of  crape  adhering  to  your  face,  and  we  will  go  to 
lor  as  soon  as  you  like! " 

Again  I  thought  with  a  dreadful  pang  how  Agnes 
was  staying  in  that  man's  house,  and  how  this  quarrel 
would  more  than  ever  divide  her  from  me ;  for  now  she 
would  not  be  allowed  to  visit  the  rectory — the  dear  neu- 
tral ground  where  I  sometimes  hoped  to  see  her. 

Weston  never  went  to  law  with  the  Doctor,  as  he 
threatened.  Some  awkward  questions  would  have  been 
raised,  which  he  would  have  found  a  difficulty  in  answer- 


120  DENIS  DUVAL 

ing:  and  though  he  averred  that  his  accident  took  place 
on  the  day  before  our  encounter  with  the  beau  masque 
on  Dartford  Common,  a  httle  witness  on  our  side  was 
ready  to  aver  that  ]Mr.  Joe  Weston  left  his  house  at  the 
Priory  before  sunrise  on  the  day  when  we  took  our  jour- 
ney to  London,  and  that  he  returned  the  next  morning 
with  his  eye  bound  up,  when  he  sent  for  ]Mr.  Blades,  the 
surgeon  of  our  town.  Being  awake,  and  looking  from 
her  window,  my  witness  saw  Weston  mount  his  horse  by 
the  stable-lantern  below,  and  heard  him  swear  at  the 
groom  as  he  rode  out  at  the  gate.  Curses  used  to  drop 
naturally  out  of  this  nice  gentleman's  lips ;  and  it  is  cer- 
tain in  his  case  that  bad  Avords  and  bad  actions  went 
together. 

The  Westons  were  frequently  absent  from  home,  as 
was  the  Chevalier  our  lodger.  My  dear  little  Agnes  was 
allowed  to  come  and  see  us  at  these  times ;  or  slipped  out 
by  the  garden-door,  and  ran  to  see  her  nurse  Duval,  as 
she  always  called  my  mother.  I  did  not  understand  for 
a  while  that  there  was  any  prohibition  on  the  Westons' 
part  to  Agnes'  visiting  us,  or  know  that  there  was  such 
mighty  wrath  harboured  against  me  in  that  house. 

I  was  glad,  for  the  sake  of  a  peaceable  life  at  home,  as 
for  honesty's  sake  too,  that  my  mother  did  not  oppose 
my  determination  to  take  no  share  in  that  smuggling 
business  in  which  our  house  still  engaged.  Any  one  who 
opposed  mother  in  her  own  house  had,  I  promise  you, 
no  easy  time:  but  she  saw  that  if  she  wished  to  make  a 
gentleman  of  her  boy,  he  must  be  no  smuggler's  appren- 
tice; and  when  M.  le  Chevalier,  being  appealed  to, 
shrugged  his  shoulders  and  said  he  washed  his  hands  of 
me — "Eh  bien,  ]M.  de  la  JMotte!"  says  she,  "we  shall 
see  if  we  can't  pass  ourselves  of  you  and  your  patronage. 


I   ESCAPE   FROM   A   GREAT   DANGER  121 

I  imagine  that  people  are  not  always  the  better  for  it." 
"  No,"  replied  he,  with  a  groan,  and  one  of  his  gloomy 
looks,  "  my  friendship  may  do  people  harm,  but  my  en- 
mity is  worse — entendez-vous? "  "Bah,  bah!"  says  the 
stout  old  lad3^  "  Denisot  has  a  good  courage  of  his  own. 
What  do  you  say  to  me  about  enmity  to  a  harmless  boy, 
M.le  Chevalier?" 

I  have  told  how,  on  the  night  of  the  funeral  of  ]Ma- 
dame  de  Saverne,  IVIonsieur  de  la  JNIotte  sent  me  out  to 
assemble  his  Mackerel  men.  Among  these  was  the  fa- 
ther of  one  of  my  town  playfellows,  by  name  Hookham, 
a  seafaring  man,  who  had  met  with  an  accident  at  his 
business — strained  his  back — and  was  incapable  of  work 
for  a  time.  Hookham  was  an  improvident  man:  the 
rent  got  into  arrears.  My  grandfather  was  his  landlord, 
and  I  fear  me,  not  the  most  humane  creditor  in  the  world. 
Now,  when  I  returned  home  after  my  famous  visit  to 
London,  my  patron,  Sir  Peter  Denis,  gave  me  two 
guineas,  and  my  lady  made  me  a  present  of  another. 
No  doubt  I  should  have  spent  this  money  had  I  received 
it  sooner  in  London ;  but  in  our  little  town  of  Winchel- 
sea  there  was  nothing  to  tempt  me  in  the  shops,  except 
a  fowling-piece  at  the  pawnbroker's,  for  which  I  had  a 
great  longing.  But  ISIr.  Triboulet  wanted  four  guineas 
for  the  gun,  and  I  had  but  three,  and  would  not  go  into 
debt.  He  would  have  given  me  the  piece  on  credit,  and 
frequently  tempted  me  with  it,  but  I  resisted  manfully, 
though  I  could  not  help  hankering  about  the  shop,  and 
going  again  and  again  to  look  at  the  beautiful  gun.  The 
stock  fitted  my  shoulder  to  a  nicety.  It  was  of  the  most 
beautiful  workmanship.  "  Why  not  take  it  now,  Master 
Duval?"  Monsieur  Triboulet  said  to  me;  "and  pay 
me  the  remaining  guinea  when  you  please.     Ever  so 


122  DENIS  DUVAL 

many  gentlemen  have  been  to  look  at  it;  and  I  should 
be  sorry  now,  indeed  I  should,  to  see  such  a  beauty  go  out 
of  the  town."  As  I  was  talking  to  Triboulet  (it  may  have 
been  for  the  tenth  time),  some  one  came  in  with  a  tele- 
scope to  pawn,  and  went  away  with  fifteen  shillings. 
"Don't  you  know  who  that  is?"  says  Triboulet  (who 
was  a  chatter-box  of  a  man).  "That  is  John  Hook- 
ham's  wife.  It  is  but  hard  times  with  them  since  John's 
accident.  I  have  more  of  their  goods  here,  and,  entre 
nous,  John  has  a  hard  landlord,  and  quarter-day  is  just 
at  hand."  I  knew  well  enough  that  John's  landlord  was 
hard,  as  he  was  my  own  grandfather.  "  If  I  take  my 
three  pieces  to  Hookham,"  thought  I,  "he  may  find  the 
rest  of  the  rent."  And  so  he  did;  and  my  three  guineas 
went  into  my  grandfather's  pocket  out  of  mine;  and  I 
suppose  some  one  else  bought  the  fowling-piece  for 
which  I  had  so  longed. 

"  What,  it  is  you  who  have  given  me  this  money,  Mas- 
ter Denis?"  says  poor  Hookham,  who  was  sitting  in  his 
chair,  groaning  and  haggard  with  his  illness.  "  I  can't 
take  it — I  ought  not  to  take  it." 

"  Nay,"  said  I ;  "I  should  only  have  bought  a  toy 
with  it,  and  if  it  comes  to  help  you  in  distress,  I  can  do 
without  my  plaything." 

There  was  quite  a  chorus  of  benedictions  from  the 
poor  family  in  consequence  of  this  act  of  good  nature; 
and  I  dare  say  I  went  away  from  Hookham's  mightily 
pleased  with  myself  and  my  own  virtue. 

It  appears  I  had  not  been  gone  long  when  Mr.  Joe 
Weston  came  in  to  see  the  man,  and  when  he  heard  that 
I  had  relieved  him,  broke  out  into  a  flood  of  abuse  against 
me,  cursed  me  for  a  scoundrel  and  impertinent  jacka- 
napes, who  was  always  giving  myself  the  airs  of  a  gen- 


I   ESCAPE    FROM   A   GREAT   DANGER  123 

tleman,  and  flew  out  of  the  house  in  a  passion.  Mother 
heard  of  the  transaction,  too,  and  pinched  my  ear  with 
a  grim  satisfaction.  Grandfather  said  nothing,  but 
pocketed  my  three  guineas  when  IMrs.  Hookham  brought 
them ;  and,  though  I  did  not  brag  about  the  matter  much, 
everything  is  known  in  a  small  town,  and  I  got  a  great 
deal  of  credit  for  a  very  ordinary  good  action. 

And  now,  strangely  enough,  Hookham's  boy  con- 
firmed to  me  what  the  Slindon  priests  had  hinted  to  good 
Dr.  Barnard.  "Swear,"  says  Tom  (with  that  wonder- 
ful energy  we  used  to  have  as  boys)  — "  Swear,  Denis, 
'  So  help  you,  strike  you  down  dead ! '  you  never  will 
tell!" 

"  So  help  me,  strike  me  down  dead ! "  said  I. 

"  Well,  then,  those — you  know  who — the  gentlemen — 
want  to  do  you  some  mischief." 

"What  mischief  can  they  do  to  an  honest  boy?"  I 
asked. 

"  Oh,  you  don't  know  what  they  are,"  says  Tom.  "  If 
they  mean  a  man  harm,  harm  will  happen  to  him.  Fa- 
ther says  no  man  ever  comes  to  good  who  stands  in  Mr. 
Joe's  way.  Where's  John  Wheeler,  of  Rye,  who  had  a 
quarrel  with  Mr.  Joe?  He's  in  gaol.  Mr.  Barnes,  of 
Playden,  had  words  with  him  at  Hastings  market:  and 
Barnes'  ricks  were  burnt  down  before  six  months  were 
over.  How  was  Thomas  Berry  taken,  after  deserting 
from  the  man-of-war?  He  is  an  awful  man,  Mr.  Joe 
Weston  is.  Don't  get  into  his  way.  Father  says  so. 
But  you  are  not  to  tell — no,  never,  that  he  spoke  about  it. 
Don't  go  alone  to  Rye  of  nights,  father  says.  Don't  go 
on  any — and  you  know  what  not — any  fisJmig  business, 
except  with  those  you  know."  And  so  Tom  leaves  me 
with  a  finger  to  his  lip  and  terror  in  his  face. 


124  DENIS  DUVAL 

As  for  the  fishing,  though  I  loved  a  sail  dearly,  my 
mind  was  made  up  by  good  Dr.  Barnard's  advice  to  me. 
I  would  have  no  more  night-fishing  such  as  I  had  seen 
sometimes  as  a  boj^;  and  when  Rudge's  apprentice  one 
night  invited  me,  and  called  me  a  coward  for  refusing 
to  go,  I  showed  him  I  was  no  coward  as  far  as  fisticuffs 
went,  and  stood  out  a  battle  with  him,  in  which  I  do  be- 
lieve I  should  have  proved  conqueror,  though  the  fellow 
was  four  years  my  senior,  had  not  his  ally,  Miss  Sukey 
Rudge,  joined  him  in  the  midst  of  our  fight,  and 
knocked  me  down  with  the  kitchen  bellows,  when  they 
both  belaboured  me,  as  I  lay  kicking  on  the  ground. 
INIr.  Elder  Rudge  came  in  at  the  close  of  this  dreadful 
combat,  and  his  abandoned  hussy  of  a  daughter  had  the 
impudence  to  declare  that  the  quarrel  arose  because  I 
was  rude  to  her — I,  an  innocent  boy,  who  would  as  soon 
have  made  love  to  a  negress  as  to  that  hideous,  pock- 
marked, squinting,  crooked,  tipsy  Sukey  Rudge.  I  fall 
in  love  with  Miss  Squintum,  indeed!  I  knew  a  pair  of 
eyes  at  home  so  bright,  innocent,  and  pure,  that  I  should 
have  been  ashamed  to  look  in  them  had  I  been  guilty  of 
such  a  rascally  treason.  JNIy  little  maid  of  Winchelsea 
heard  of  this  battle,  as  she  was  daily  hearing  slanders 
against  me  from  those  worthy  Mr.  Westons;  but  she 
broke  into  a  rage  at  the  accusation,  and  said  to  the  as- 
sembled gentlemen  (as  she  told  my  good  mother  in  after 
days),  "Denis  Duval  is  not  wicked.  He  is  brave  and 
he  is  good.  And  it  is  not  true,  the  story  you  tell  against 
him.    It  is  a  lie!  " 

And  now,  once  more  it  happened  that  my  little  pistol 
helped  to  confound  my  enemies,  and  was  to  me,  indeed, 
a  gute  Wehr  unci  Waff  en.  I  was  for  ever  popping  at 
marks  with  this  little  piece  of  artillery.    I  polished,  oiled, 


I   ESCAPE    FROM   A   GREAT   DANGER  125 

and  covered  it  with  the  utmost  care,  and  kept  it  in  my 
little  room  in  a  box  of  which  I  had  the  key.  One  day,  by 
a  most  fortunate  chance,  I  took  my  schoolfellow,  Tom 
Parrot,  who  became  a  great  crony  of  mine,  into  the  room. 
We  went  upstairs,  by  the  private  door  of  Rudge's  house, 
and  not  through  the  shop,  where  IMademoiselle  Figs  and 
INIonsieur  the  apprentice  were  serving  their  customers; 
and  arrived  in  my  room,  we  boys  opened  my  box,  ex- 
amined the  precious  pistol,  screw,  barrel,  flints,  powder- 
horn,  &c.,  locked  the  box,  and  went  away  to  school, 
promising  ourselves  a  good  afternoon's  sport  on  that 
half -holiday.  Lessons  over,  I  returned  home  to  dinner, 
to  find  black  looks  from  all  the  inmates  of  the  house 
where  I  lived,  from  the  grocer,  his  daughter,  his  appren- 
tice, and  even  the  little  errand-boy  who  blacked  the  boots 
and  swept  the  shop  stared  at  me  impertinently,  and  said, 
"  Oh,  Denis,  ain't  you  going  to  catch  it! " 

"What  is  the  matter?"  I  asked,  very  haughtily. 

"  Oh,  my  lord!  we'll  soon  show  your  lordship  what  is 
the  matter."  (This  was  a  silly  nickname  I  had  in  the 
town  and  at  school,  where,  I  believe,  I  gave  mj^self  not  a 
few  airs  since  I  had  worn  my  fine  new  clothes,  and  paid 
my  visit  to  London.)  "This  accounts  for  his  laced 
waistcoat,  and  his  guineas  which  he  flings  about.  Does 
your  lordship  know  these  here  shillings,  and  this  half- 
crown?  Look  at  them,  Mr.  Beales!  See  the  marks  on 
them  which  I  scratched  with  my  own  hand  before  I  put 
them  into  the  till  from  which  my  lord  took  'em." 

Shillings? — till?  What  did  they  mean?  "  How  dare 
you  ask,  you  little  hypocrite! "  screams  out  Miss  Rudge. 
"  I  marked  them  shillings  and  that  half-crown  with  my 
own  needle,  I  did;  and  of  that  I  can  take  my  Bible 
oath." 


126  DENIS  DUVAL 

"Well,  and  what  then?"  I  asked,  remembering  how 
this  young  woman  had  not  scrupled  to  bear  false  witness 
in  another  charge  against  me. 

"What  then?  They  were  in  the  till  this  morning, 
young  fellow;  and  you  know  well  enough  where  they 
were  found  afterwards,"  says  Mr.  Beales.  "  Come, 
come !    This  is  a  bad  job.    This  is  a  sessions  job,  my  lad." 

"  But  where  were  they  found?  "  again  I  asked. 

"  We'll  tell  you  that  before  Squire  Boroughs  and  the 
magistrates,  you  young  vagabond ! " 

"  You  little  viper,  that  have  turned  and  stung  me!  " 

"  You  precious  young  scoundrel! " 

"  You  wicked  little  story-telling,  good-for-nothing 
little  thief!"  cry  Budge,  the  apprentice,  and  Miss 
Budge  in  a  breath.  And  I  stood  bewildered  by  their 
outcry,  and,  indeed,  not  quite  comprehending  the  charge 
which  they  made  against  me. 

"  The  magistrates  are  sitting  at  Town  Hall  now.  We 
will  take  the  little  villain  there  at  once,"  says  the  grocer. 
"You  bring  the  box  along  with  you,  constable.  Lord! 
Lord!  what  will  his  poor  grandfather  say?"  And, 
wondering  still  at  the  charge  made  against  me,  I  was 
made  to  walk  through  the  streets  to  the  Town  Hall, 
passing  on  the  way  by  at  least  a  score  of  our  boys,  who 
were  enjoying  their  half -holiday.  It  was  market-day, 
too,  and  the  town  full.  It  is  forty  years  ago,  but  I 
dream  about  that  dreadful  day  still;  and,  an  old  gentle- 
man of  sixty,  fancy  myself  walking  through  Bye  mar- 
ket, with  Mr.  Beales'  fist  clutching  my  collar ! 

A  number  of  our  boys  joined  this  dismal  procession, 
and  accompanied  me  into  the  magistrate's  room. 
"Denis  Duval  up  for  stealing  money!"  cries  one. 
"  This  accounts  for  his  fine  clothes,"   sneers  another. 


I   ESCAPE   FROM   A   GREAT   DANGER  127 

"  He'll  be  hung,"  says  a  third.  The  market  people  stare, 
and  crowd  round,  and  jeer.  I  feel  as  if  in  a  horrible 
nightmare.  We  pass  under  the  pillars  of  the  Market 
House,  up  the  steps  to  the  Town  Hall,  where  the  mag- 
istrates were,  who  chose  market-day  for  their  sittings. 

How  my  heart  throbbed,  as  I  saw  my  dear  Dr.  Bar- 
nard seated  among  them. 

"  Oh,  Doctor,"  cries  poor  Denis,  clasping  his  hands, 
"you  don't  believe  me  guilty? " 

"Guilty  of  what?"  cries  the  Doctor,  from  the  raised 
table  round  which  the  gentlemen  sat. 

"  Guilty  of  stealing." 

"  Guilty  of  robbing  my  till." 

"  Guilty  of  taking  two  half-crowns,  three  shillings 
and  twopence  in  copper,  all  marked,"  shriek  out  Rudge, 
the  apprentice,  and  Miss  Rudge  in  a  breath. 

"Denny  Duval  steal  sixpences!"  cries  the  Doctor; 
"I  would  as  soon  believe  he  stole  the  dragon  off  the 
church  steeple!" 

"Silence,  you  boys!  Silence  in  the  court,  there;  or 
flog  'em  and  turn  'em  all  out,"  says  the  magistrates' 
clerk.  Some  of  our  boys — friends  of  mine — who  had 
crowded  into  the  place,  were  hurrajdng  at  my  kind 
Doctor  Barnard's  speech. 

"  It  is  a  most  serious  charge,"  says  the  clerk. 

"But  what  is  the  charge,  my  good  Mr.  Hickson? 
You  might  as  well  put  me  into  the  dock  as  that — " 

"Pray,  sir,  will  you  allow  the  business  of  the  court 
to  go  on?"  asks  the  clerk,  testily.  "Make  your  state- 
ment, Mr.  Rudge,  and  don't  be  afraid  of  anybody.  You 
are  under  the  protection  of  the  court,  sir." 

And  now  for  the  first  time  I  heard  the  particulars  of 
the  charge  made  against  me.    Rudge,  and  his  daughter 


128  DENIS  DUVAL 

after  him,  stated  (on  oath,  I  am  shocked  to  say)  that 
for  some  time  past  they  had  missed  money  from  the 
till;  small  sums  of  money,  in  shillings  and  half-crowns, 
they  could  not  say  how  much.  It  might  be  two  pounds, 
three  pounds,  in  all;  but  the  money  was  constantly 
going.  At  last.  Miss  Rudge  said,  she  was  determined 
to  mark  some  monejs  and  did  so;  and  that  money  was 
found  in  that  box  which  belonged  to  Denis  Duval,  and 
which  the  constable  brought  into  court. 

"Oh,  gentlemen!"  I  cried  out  in  agony,  "it's  a 
wicked,  wicked  lie,  and  it's  not  the  first  she  has  told  about 
me.  A  week  ago  she  said  I  wanted  to  kiss  her,  and  she 
and  Bevil  both  set  on  me;  and  I  never  wanted  to  kiss 
the  nasty  thing,  so  help  me—" 

"  You  did,  you  lying  wicked  boy ! "  cries  Miss  Sukey. 
"And  Edward  Bevil  came  to  my  rescue ;  and  you  struck 
me,  like  a  low  mean  coward ;  and  we  beat  him  well,  and 
served  him  right,  the  little  abandoned  boy." 

"And  he  kicked  one  of  my  teeth  out— you  did,  you 
Httle  villain!"  roars  Bevil,  whose  jaws  had  indeed  suf- 
fered in  that  scuffle  in  the  kitchen,  when  his  precious 
sweetheart  came  to  his  aid  with  the  bellows. 

"He  called  me  a  coward,  and  I  fought  him  fair, 
though  he  is  ever  so  much  older  than  me,"  whimj^ers 
out  the  prisoner.  "And  Sukey  Rudge  set  upon  me, 
and  beat  me  too;  and  if  I  kicked  him,  he  kicked  me." 

"And  since  this  kicking  match  they  have  found  out 
that  you  stole  their  money,  have  they?"  says  the 
Doctor,  and  turns  round,  appealing  to  his  brother  mag- 
istrates. 

"Miss  Rudge,  please  to  tell  the  rest  of  your  story?" 
calls  out  the  justices'  clerk. 

The  rest  of  the  Rudges'  story  was,  that  having  their 


Evidence  for 
the  Defence 


I   ESCAPE   FROM   A   GREAT   DANGER  129 

suspicions  roused  against  me,  they  determined  to  ex- 
amine my  cu23boards  and  boxes  in  my  absence,  to  see 
whether  the  stolen  objects  were  to  be  found,  and  in  my 
box  they  discovered  the  two  marked  half-crowns,  the 
three  marked  shillings,  a  brass-barrelled  pistol,  which 
were  now  in  court.  "  Me  and  Mr.  Bevil,  the  apprentice, 
found  the  money  in  the  box;  and  we  called  my  papa 
from  the  shop,  and  we  fetched  Mr.  Beales,  the  con- 
stable, who  lives  over  the  way ;  and  when  the  little  mon- 
ster came  back  from  school,  we  seized  upon  him,  and 
brought  him  before  your  worships,  and  hanging  is  what 
I  said  he  would  always  come  to,"  shrieks  my  enemy  Miss 
Rudge. 

"  Why,  I  have  the  key  of  that  box  in  my  pocket  now! " 
I  cried  out. 

*'We  had  means  of  opening  it,"  says  Miss  Rudge, 
looking  very  red. 

"Oh,  if  you  have  another  key — ,"  interposes  the 
Doctor. 

"We  broke  it  open  with  the  tongs  and  poker,"  says 
Miss  Rudge,  "  me  and  Edward  did— I  mean  Mr.  Bevil, 
the  apprentice." 

"  When? "  said  I,  in  a  great  tremor. 

"When?  When  you  was  at  school,  you  little  mis- 
creant! Half-an-hour  before  you  came  back  to  din- 
ner." 

"Tom  Parrot,  Tom  Parrot!"  I  cried.  "Call  Tom 
Parrot,  gentlemen.  For  goodness'  sake  call  Tom!" 
I  said,  my  heart  beating  so  that  I  could  hardly 
speak. 

"Here  I  am,  Denny!"  pipes  Tom  in  the  crowd; 
and  presently  he  comes  up  to  their  honours  on  the 
bench. 


130  DENIS  DUVAL 

"Speak  to  Tom,  Doctor,  dear  Doctor  Barnard  I"  I 
continued.    "  Tom,  when  did  I  show  you  my  pistol? " 

"  Just  before  ten  o'clock  school." 

"What  did  I  do?" 

"  You  unlocked  your  box,  took  the  pistol  out  of  a 
handkerchief,  showed  it  to  me,  and  two  flints,  a  powder- 
horn,  a  bullet-mould,  and  some  bullets,  and  put  them 
back  again,  and  locked  the  box." 

"  Was  there  any  money  in  the  box? " 

"  There  was  nothing  in  the  box  but  the  pistol,  and  the 
bullets  and  things.  I  looked  into  it.  It  was  as  empty 
as  my  hand." 

"And  Denis  Duval  has  been  sitting  by  you  in  school 
ever  since?" 

"  Ever  since— except  when  I  was  called  up  and  caned 
for  my  Corderius,"  says  Tom,  with  a  roguish  look;  and 
there  was  a  great  laughter  and  shout  of  applause  from 
our  boys  of  Pocock's  when  this  testimony  was  given  in 
their  schoolfellow's  favour. 

My  kind  Doctor  held  his  hand  over  the  railing  to  me, 
and  when  I  took  it,  my  heart  was  so  full  that  my  eyes 
overflowed.  I  thought  of  little  Agnes.  What  would 
she  have  felt  if  her  Denis  had  been  committed  as  a  thief? 
I  had  such  a  rapture  of  thanks  and  gratitude  that  I 
think  the  pleasure  of  the  acquittal  was  more  than  equiv- 
alent to  the  anguish  of  the  accusation.  What  a  shout 
all  Pocock's  boys  set  up,  as  I  went  out  of  the  justice- 
room!  We  trooped  joyfully  down  the  stairs,  and  there 
were  fresh  shouts  and  huzzays  as  we  got  down  to  the 
market.  I  saw  Mr.  Joe  Weston  buying  corn  at  a  stall. 
He  only  looked  at  me  once.  His  grinding  teeth  and  his 
clenched  riding-whip  did  not  frighten  me  in  the  least 
now. 


CHAPTER   VII 

THE  LAST  OF  MY  SCHOOL-DAYS 

AS  our  joyful  procession  of  boys  passed  by  Partlett's 
±jL  the  pastrycook's,  one  of  the  boys  —  Samuel  Arbin 
—  I  remember  the  fellow  well — a  greedy  boy,  with  a 
large  beard  and  whiskers,  though  onl}^  fifteen  years  old 
— insisted  that  I  ought  to  stand  treat  in  consequence  of 
my  victory  over  my  enemies.  As  far  as  a  groat  went,  I 
said  I  was  ready:  for  that  was  all  the  money  I  had. 

"Oh,  you  storyteller!"  cries  the  other.  "What  have 
you  done  with  your  three  guineas  which  you  were  brag- 
ging about  and  showing  to  the  boys  at  school?  I  sup- 
pose they  were  in  the  box  when  it  M^as  broken  open." 
This  Samuel  Arbin  was  one  of  the  boj^s  who  had  jeered 
when  I  was  taken  in  charge  by  the  constable,  and  would 
have  liked  me  to  be  guilty,  I  almost  think.  I  am  afraid 
I  had  bragged  about  my  money  when  I  possessed  it, 
and  may  have  shown  my  shining  gold  pieces  to  some 
of  the  boys  in  school. 

"I  know  what  he  has  done  with  his  money!"  broke 
in  my  steadfast  crony  Tom  Parrot.  "  He  has  given 
awajT^  every  shilling  of  it  to  a  poor  family  who  wanted 
it,  and  nobody  ever  knew  yon  give  away  a  shilling, 
Samuel  Arbin,"  he  says. 

"  Unless  he  could  get  eighteenpence  by  it!"  sang  out 
another  little  voice. 

"  Tom  Parrot,  I'll  break  every  bone  in  j^our  body,  as 
sure  as  my  name  is  Arbin ! "  cried  the  other,  in  a  fury. 

131 


132  DENIS  DUVAL 

"  Sam  Arbin,"  said  I,  "  after  you  have  finished  Tom, 
you  must  try  me;  or  we'll  do  it  now,  if  you  like."  To 
say  the  truth,  I  had  long  had  an  inclination  to  try  my 
hand  against  Arbin.  He  was  an  ill  friend  to  me,  and 
amongst  the  younger  boys  a  bully  and  a  usurer  to  boot. 
The  rest  called  out,  "A  ring!  a  ring!  Let  us  go  on  the 
green  and  have  it  out!"  being  in  their  innocent  years 
always  ready  for  a  fight. 

But  this  one  was  never  to  come  off:  and  (except  in 
later  days,  when  I  went  to  revisit  the  old  place,  and  ask 
for  a  half -holiday  for  my  young  successors  at  Pocock's) 
I  was  never  again  to  see  the  ancient  school-room. 
While  we  boys  were  brawling  in  the  market-place  before 
the  pastrycook's  door.  Dr.  Barnard  came  up,  and  our 
quarrel  was  hushed  in  a  moment. 

"What!  fighting  and  quarrelling  already?"  says  the 
Doctor,  sternly. 

"  It  wasn't  Denny's  fault,  sir! "  cried  out  several  of  the 
boys.  *'  It  was  Arbin  began."  And,  indeed,  I  can  say 
for  myself  that  in  all  the  quarrels  I  have  had  in  life — 
and  they  have  not  been  few— I  consider  I  always  have 
been  in  the  right. 

"  Come  along  with  me,  Denny,"  says  the  Doctor, 
taking  me  by  the  shoulder:  and  he  led  me  away  and  we 
took  a  walk  in  the  town  together,  and  as  we  passed  old 
Ypres  Tower,  which  was  built  by  King  Stephen,  they 
say,  and  was  a  fort  in  old  days,  but  is  used  as  the  town- 
prison  now,  "  Suppose  you  had  been  looking  from 
behind  those  bars  now,  Denny,  and  awaiting  your  trial 
at  assizes?  Yours  would  not  have  been  a  pleasant 
plight,"  Dr.  Barnard  said. 

"  But  I  was  innocent,  sir!    You  know  I  was!" 

"  Yes.    Praise  be  where  praise  is  due.    But  if  you  had 


THE   LAST  OF  MY   SCHOOL-DAYS  133 

not  providentially  been  able  to  prove  your  innocence 
— if  you  and  your  friend  Parrot  had  not  happened  to 
inspect  your  box,  you  would  have  been  in  yonder  place. 
Ha!  there  is  the  bell  ringing  for  afternoon  service, 
which  my  good  friend  Dr.  Wing  keeps  uj).  What  say 
you?  Shall  we  go  and — and — oiFer  up  our  thanks, 
Denny — for  the — the  immense  peril  from  which — you 
have  been — delivered  ? " 

I  remember  how  my  dear  friend's  voice  trembled  as 
he  spoke,  and  two  or  three  drops  fell  from  his  kind  eyes 
on  my  hand,  which  he  held.  I  followed  him  into  the 
church.  Indeed  and  indeed  I  was  thankful  for  my 
deliverance  from  a  great  danger,  and  even  more  thank- 
ful to  have  the  regard  of  the  true  gentleman,  the  wise 
and  tender  friend,  who  was  there  to  guide,  and  cheer, 
and  help  me. 

As  we  read  the  last  psalm  appointed  for  that  evening 
service,  I  remember  how  the  good  man,  bowing  his  own 
head,  put  his  hand  upon  mine;  and  we  recited  together 
the  psalm  of  thanks  to  the  Highest,  who  had  had  respect 
unto  the  lowly,  and  who  had  stretched  forth  His  hand 
upon  the  furiousness  of  my  enemies,  and  whose  right 
hand  had  saved  me.     . 

Dr.  Wing  recognized  and  greeted  his  comrade  when 
service  was  over:  and  the  one  doctor  presented  me  to 
the  other,  who  had  been  one  of  the  magistrates  on  the 
bench  at  the  time  of  my  trial.  Dr.  Wing  asked  us 
into  his  house,  where  dinner  was  served  at  four  o'clock, 
and  of  course  the  transactions  of  the  morning  were 
again  discussed.  What  could  be  the  reason  of  the  per- 
secution against  me?  Who  instigated  it?  There  were 
matters  connected  with  this  story  regarding  which  I 
could  not  speak.    Should  I  do  so,  I  must  betray  secrets 


134  DENIS  DUVAL 

which  were  not  mine,  and  which  imphcated  I  knew  not 
whom,  and  regarding  which  I  must  hold  my  peace. 
Now,  they  are  secrets  no  more.  That  old  society  of 
smugglers  is  dissolved  long  ago:  nay,  I  shall  have  to 
tell  presently  how  I  helped  myself  to  break  it  up. 
Grandfather,  Rudge,  the  Chevalier,  the  gentlemen  of 
the  Priory,  were  all  connected  in  that  great  smuggling 
society  of  which  I  have  spoken;  which  had  its  depots 
all  along  the  coast  and  inland,  and  its  correspondents 
from  Dunkirk  to  Havre  de  Grace.  I  have  said  as  a 
boy  how  I  had  been  on  some  of  these  "  fishing  "  expe- 
ditions ;  and  how,  mainly  by  the  effect  of  my  dear  Doc- 
tor's advice,  I  had  withdrawn  from  all  participation  in 
this  lawless  and  wicked  life.  When  Bevil  called  me 
coward  for  refusing  to  take  a  share  in  a  night-cruise,  a 
quarrel  ensued  between  us,  ending  in  that  battle  royal 
which  left  us  all  sprawling,  and  cuffing  and  kicking  each 
other  on  the  kitchen  floor.  Was  it  rage  at  the  injury  to 
her  sweetheart's  teeth,  or  hatred  against  myself,  which 
induced  my  sweet  Miss  Sukey  to  propagate  calumnies 
against  me?  The  provocation  I  had  given  certainly 
did  not  seem  to  warrant  such  a  deadly  enmity  as  a 
prosecution  and  a  perjury  showed  must  exist.  Howbeit, 
there  was  a  reason  for  the  anger  of  the  grocer's  daughter 
and  apprentice.  They  would  injure  me  in  any  way  they 
could;  and  (as  in  the  before-mentioned  case  of  the  bel- 
lows) take  the  first  weapon  at  hand  to  overthrow  me. 

As  magistrates  of  the  county,  and  knowing  a  great 
deal  of  what  was  happening  round  about  them,  and 
the  character  of  their  parishioners  and  neighbours,  the 
two  gentlemen  could  not,  then,  press  me  too  closely. 
Smuggled  silk  and  lace,  rum  and  brandy?  Who  had 
not  these  in  his  possession  along  the  Sussex  and  Kent 


THE   LAST   OF  MY   SCHOOL-DAYS  135 

coast?  "And,  Wing,  will  you  promise  me  there  are  no 
ribbons  in  your  house  but  such  as  have  paid  duty? "  asks 
one  Doctor  of  the  other. 

"  My  good  friend,  it  is  lucky  my  wife  has  gone  to  her 
tea-table,"  replies  Dr.  Wing,  "  or  I  would  not  answer 
for  the  peace  being  kept." 

*'  My  dear  Wing,"  continues  Dr.  Barnard,  "  This 
brandy  punch  is  excellent,  and  is  worthy  of  being  smug- 
gled. To  run  an  anker  of  brandy  seems  no  monstrous 
crime;  but  when  men  engage  in  these  lawless  ventures 
at  all,  who  knows  how  far  the  evil  will  go?  I  buy  ten 
kegs  of  brandy  from  a  French  fishing-boat,  I  land  it 
under  a  lie  on  the  coast,  I  send  it  inland  ever  so  far,  be 
it  from  here  to  York,  and  all  my  consignees  lie  and 
swindle.  I  land  it,  and  lie  to  the  revenue  officer.  Under 
a  lie  (that  is,  a  mutual  secrecy,)  I  sell  it  to  the  landlord 
of  'The  Bell'  at  Maidstone,  say — where  a  good  friend 
of  ours,  Denny,  looked  at  his  pistols.  You  remember 
the  day  when  his  brother  received  the  charge  of  shot  in 
his  face?  My  landlord  sells  it  to  a  customer  under  a 
lie.  We  are  all  engaged  in  crime,  conspiracy,  and  false- 
hood; nay,  if  the  revenue  looks  too  closely  after  us,  we 
out  with  our  pistols,  and  to  crime  and  conspiracy  add 
murder.  Do  you  suppose  men  engaged  in  lying  ever}'^ 
day  will  scruple  about  a  false  oath  in  a  witness-box? 
Crime  engenders  crime,  sir.  Round  about  us.  Wing,  I 
know  there  exists  a  vast  confederacy  of  fraud,  greed, 
and  rebellion.  I  name  no  names,  sir.  I  fear  men  high 
placed  in  the  world's  esteem,  and  largely  endowed 
with  its  riches  too,  are  concerned  in  the  pursuit  of  this 
godless  traffic  of  smuggling,  and  to  what  does  it  not 
lead  them?  To  falsehood,  to  wickedness,  to  murder, 
to-" 


136  DENIS  DUVAL 

"Tea,  sir,  if  you  please,  sir,"  says  John,  entering. 
"  My  mistress  and  the  young  ladies  are  waiting." 

The  ladies  had  previously  heard  the  story  of  poor 
Denis  Duval's  persecution  and  innocence,  and  had 
shown  him  great  kindness.  By  the  time  when  we  joined 
them  after  dinner,  they  had  had  time  to  perform  a  new 
toilette,  being  engaged  to  cards  with  some  neighbours. 
I  knew  Mrs.  Wing  was  a  customer  to  my  mother  for 
some  of  her  French  goods,  and  she  would  scarcely,  on 
an  ordinary  occasion,  have  admitted  such  a  lowly  guest 
to  her  table  as  the  humble  dressmaker's  boy ;  but  she  and 
the  ladies  were  very  kind,  and  my  persecution  and 
proved  innocence  had  interested  them  in  my  favour. 

"  You  have  had  a  long  sitting,  gentlemen,"  says  Mrs. 
Wing:  "I  suppose  you  have  been  deep  in  politics,  and 
the  quarrel  with  France." 

"We  have  been  speaking  of  France  and  French 
goods,  my  dear,"  said  Dr.  Wing,  dryly. 

"And  of  the  awful  crime  of  smuggling  and  encour- 
aging smuggling,  my  dear  Mrs.  Wing!"  cries  my 
Doctor. 

"Indeed,  Dr.  Barnard!"  Now,  Mrs.  Wing  and  the 
young  ladies  were  dressed  in  smart  new  caps,  and  rib- 
bons, which  my  poor  mother  supplied ;  and  they  turned 
red,  and  I  turned  as  red  as  the  cap-ribbons,  as  I  thought 
how  my  good  ladies  had  been  provided.  No  wonder 
Mrs.  Wing  was  desirous  to  change  the  subject  of  con- 
versation. 

"What  is  this  young  man  to  do  after  his  persecu- 
tion?" she  asked.    "He  can't  go  back  to  Mr.  Rudge— 
that  horrid  Wesleyan  who  has  accused  him  of  steal- 
ing."   _ 
No,  indeed,  I  could  not  go  back.    We  had  not  thought 


THE   LAST   OF   MY   SCHOOL-DAYS  137 

about  the  matter  until  then.  There  had  been  a  hundred 
things  to  agitate  and  interest  me  in  the  half-dozen  hours 
since  my  apprehension  and  dismissal. 

The  Doctor  would  take  me  to  Winchelsea  in  his 
chaise.  I  could  not  go  back  to  my  persecutors,  that  was 
clear,  except  to  reclaim  my  little  property  and  my  poor 
little  boxes,  which  they  had  found  means  to  open.  Mrs. 
Wing  gave  me  a  hand,  the  young  ladies  a  stately  curt- 
sey; and  my  good  Dr.  Barnard  putting  a  hand  under 
the  arm  of  the  barber's  grandson,  we  quitted  these  kind 
people.  I  was  not  on  the  quarter-deck  as  yet,  you  see. 
I  was  but  a  humble  lad  belonging  to  ordinary  trades- 
men. 

By  the  way,  I  had  forgotten  to  say  that  the  two 
clergymen,  during  their  after-dinner  talk,  had  employed 
a  part  of  it  in  examining  me  as  to  my  little  store  of  learn- 
ing at  school,  and  my  future  prospects.  Of  Latin  I  had 
a  smattering;  French,  owing  to  my  birth,  and  mainly 
to  M.  de  la  Motte's  instruction  and  conversation,  I  could 
speak  better  than  either  of  my  two  examiners,  and  with 
quite  the  good  manner  and  conversation.  I  was  well 
advanced,  too,  in  arithmetic  and  geometry;  and  Dam- 
pier's  Voyages  were  as  much  my  delight  as  those  of 
Sinbad  or  my  friends  Robinson  Crusoe  and  Man  Fri- 
day. I  could  pass  a  good  examination  in  navigation 
and  seamanship,  and  could  give  an  account  of  the  difFer- 
erent  sailings,  working-tides,  double-altitudes,  and  so 
forth. 

"And  you  can  manage  a  boat  at  sea,  too?"  says  Dr. 
Barnard,  dryly.  I  blushed,  I  suppose.  I  could  do  that, 
and  could  steer,  reef,  and  pull  an  oar.  At  least  I  could 
do  so  two  years  ago. 

"Denny,  my  boy,"  says  my  good  Doctor;  "I  think 


138  DENIS  DUVAL 

'tis  time  for  thee  to  leave  this  school  at  any  rate,  and 
that  our  friend  Sir  Peter  must  provide  for  thee." 

However  he  may  desire  to  improve  in  learning,  no 
boy,  I  fancy,  is  very  sorry  when  a  proposal  is  made  to 
him  to  leave  school.  I  said  that  I  should  be  too  glad  if 
Sir  Peter,  my  patron,  would  provide  for  me.  With  the 
education  I  had,  I  ought  to  get  on,  the  Doctor  said,  and 
my  grandfather  he  was  sure  would  find  the  means  for 
allowing  me  to  appear  hke  a  gentleman. 

To  fit  a  boy  for  appearance  on  the  quarter-deck,  and 
to  enable  him  to  rank  with  others,  I  had  heard  would 
cost  thirty  or  forty  pounds  a  year  at  least.  I  asked, 
did  Dr.  Barnard  think  my  grandfather  could  afford 
such  a  sum? 

"  I  know  not  your  grandfather's  means,"  Dr.  Barnard 
answered,  smiling.  "  He  keeps  his  own  counsel.  But 
I  am  very  much  mistaken,  Denny,  if  he  cannot  afford 
to  make  you  a  better  allowance  than  many  a  fine  gentle- 
man can  give  his  son.  I  believe  him  to  be  rich.  Mind,  I 
have  no  precise  reason  for  my  belief;  but  I  fancy,  Mas- 
ter Denis,  your  good  grandpapa's  fishing  has  been  very 
profitable  to  him." 

How  rich  was  he?  I  began  to  think  of  the  treasures 
in  my  favourite  "Arabian  Nights."  Did  Dr.  Barnard 
think  grandfather  was  very  rich?  Well— the  Doctor 
could  not  tell.  The  notion  in  Winchelsea  was  that  old 
Mr.  Peter  was  very  well  to  do.  At  any  rate  I  must  go 
back  to  him.  It  was  impossible  that  I  should  stay  with 
the  Rudge  family  after  the  insulting  treatment  I  had 
had  from  them.  The  Doctor  said  he  would  take  me 
home  with  him  in  his  chaise,  if  I  would  pack  my  little 
trunks;  and  with  this  talk  we  reached  Rudge's  shop, 
which  I  entered  not  without  a  beating  heart.     There 


THE   LAST  OF  MY   SCHOOL-DAYS  139 

was  Rudge  glaring  at  me  from  behind  his  desk,  where 
he  was  posting  his  books.  The  apprentice  looked  dag- 
gers at  me  as  he  came  up  through  a  trap-door  from  the 
cellar  with  a  string  of  dip-candles;  and  my  charming 
Miss  Susan  was  behind  the  counter  tossing  up  her  ugly 
head. 

"Ho!  he's  come  back,  have  he?"  says  Miss  Rudge. 
"As  all  the  cupboards  is  locked  in  the  parlour,  you  can 
go  in,  and  get  your  tea  there,  young  man." 

"  I  am  going  to  take  Denis  home,  INIr.  Rudge,"  said 
my  kind  Doctor.  "  He  cannot  remain  with  you,  after 
the  charge  which  you  made  against  him  this  morning." 

"  Of  having  our  marked  money  in  his  box?  Do  you 
go  for  to  dare  for  to  say  we  put  it  there?"  cries  JNIiss, 
glaring  now  at  me,  now  at  Dr.  Barnard.  "  Go  to  say 
that!  Please  to  say  that  once.  Dr.  Barnard,  before  Mrs. 
Barker  and  Mrs.  Scales  "  (these  were  two  women  who 
happened  to  be  in  the  shop  purchasing  goods).  "Just 
be  so  good  for  to  say  before  these  ladies,  that  we  have 
put  the  money  in  that  boy's  box,  and  we'll  see  whether 
there  is  not  justice  in  Hengland  for  a  poor  girl  whom 
you  insult,  because  you  are  a  doctor  and  a  magistrate 
indeed!  Eh,  if  I  was  a  man,  I  wouldn't  let  some  peo- 
ple's gowns,  and  cassocks,  and  bands,  remain  long  on 
their  backs — that  I  wouldn't.  And  some  people 
wouldn't  see  a  woman  insulted  if  they  wasn't  cowards! " 
As  she  said  this,  INIiss  Sukey  looked  at  the  cellar-trap, 
above  which  the  apprentice's  head  had  appeared,  but 
the  Doctor  turned  also  towards  it  with  a  glance  so 
threatening,  that  Bevil  let  the  trap  fall  suddenly  down, 
not  a  little  to  my  Doctor's  amusement. 

"  Go  and  pack  thy  trunk,  Denny.  I  will  come  back 
for  thee  in  half -an-hour.    ]\Ir.  Rudge  must  see  that  after 


140  DENIS  DUVAL 

being  so  insulted  as  you  have  been,  you  never  as  a  gen- 
tleman can  stay  in  this  house." 

"A  pretty  gentleman,  indeed  I"  ejaculates  Miss 
Rudge.  "  Pray,  how  long  since  was  barbers  gentlemen, 
I  should  like  to  know?  Mrs.  Scales  mum,  Mrs.  Barker 
mum,— did  you  ever  have  your  hair  dressed  by  a  gentle- 
man? If  you  want  for  to  have  it,  you  must  go  to  Moun- 
seer  Duval,  at  Winchelsea,  which  one  of  the  name  was 
hung,  Mrs.  Barker  mum,  for  a  thief  and  a  robber,  and 
he  won't  be  the  last  neither! " 

There  was  no  use  in  bandying  abuse  with  this  woman. 
"  I  will  go  and  get  my  trunk,  and  be  ready,  sir,"  I  said 
to  the  Doctor;  but  his  back  was  no  sooner  turned  than 
the  raging  virago  opposite  me  burst  out  with  a  fury  of 
words,  that  I  certainly  can't  remember  after  five-and- 
forty  years.  I  fancy  I  see  now  the  little  green  eyes 
gleaming  hatred  at  me,  the  lean  arms  a-kimbo,  the  feet 
stamping  as  she  hisses  out  every  imaginable  imprecation 
at  my  poor  head. 

"  Will  no  man  help  me,  and  stand  by  and  see  that 
barber's  boy  insult  me?"  she  cried.  "Bevil,  I  say — 
Bevil!    'Elpme!" 

I  ran  upstairs  to  my  little  room,  and  was  not  twenty 
minutes  in  making  up  my  packages.  I  had  passed 
years  in  that  little  room,  and  somehow  grieved  to  leave 
it.  The  odious  people  had  injured  me,  and  yet  I  would 
have  liked  to  part  friends  with  them.  I  had  passed  de- 
lightful nights  there  in  the  company  of  Robinson  Cru- 
soe, Mariner,  and  Monsieur  Galland  and  his  Contes 
Arabes,  and  Hector  of  Troy,  whose  adventures  and 
lamentable  death  (out  of  Mr.  Pope)  I  could  recite  by 
heart ;  and  I  had  had  weary  nights,  too,  with  my  school- 
books,  cramming  that  crabbed  Latin  grammar  into  my 


THE   LAST   OF  MY   SCHOOL-DAYS  141 

puzzled  brain.  With  arithmetic,  logarithms,  and  math- 
ematics I  have  said  I  was  more  familiar.  I  took  a  pretty 
good  place  in  our  school  with  them,  and  ranked  before 
many  boys  of  greater  age. 

And  now  my  boxes  being  packed  (my  little  library 
being  stowed  away  in  that  which  contained  my  famous 
pistol),  I  brought  them  downstairs,  with  nobody  to  help 
me,  and  had  them  in  the  passage  ready  against  Dr. 
Barnard's  arrival.  The  passage  is  behind  the  back  shop 
at  Rudge's —  (dear  me!  how  well  I  remember  it!)  — and 
a  door  thence  leads  into  a  side-street.  On  the  other  side 
of  this  passage  is  the  kitchen,  where  had  been  the  fight 
which  has  been  described  already,  and  where  we  com- 
monly took  our  meals. 

I  declare  I  went  into  that  kitchen  disposed  to  part 
friends  with  all  these  people — to  forgive  Miss  Sukey 
her  lies,  and  Bevil  his  cuffs,  and  all  the  past  quarrels 
between  us.  Old  Rudge  was  by  the  fire,  having  his 
supper ;  Miss  Sukey  opposite  to  him.  Bevil,  as  yet,  was 
minding  the  shop. 

"  I  am  come  to  shake  hands  before  going  away,"  I 
said. 

"  You're  a-going,  are  you?  And  pray,  sir,  wherehever 
are  you  a-going  of?"  says  Miss  Sukey,  over  her  tea. 

"  I  am  going  home  with  Dr.  Barnard.  I  can't  stop  in 
this  house  after  you  have  accused  me  of  stealing  your 
money." 

"  Stealing!  Wasn't  the  money  in  your  box,  you  little 
beastly  thief?" 

"  Oh,  you  young  reprobate,  I  am  surprised  the  bears 
don't  come  in  and  eat  you,"  groans  old  Rudge.  "  You 
have  shortened  my  life  with  your  wickedness,  that  you 
have;  and  if  you  don't  bring  your  good  grandfather's 


142  DENIS  DUVAL 

grey  hairs  with  sorrow  to  the  grave,  I  shall  be  surprised, 
that  I  shall.  You,  who  come  of  a  pious  family— I 
tremble  when  I  think  of  you,  Denis  Duval!" 

"  Tremble!  Faugh!  the  wicked  httle  beast!  he  makes 
me  sick,  he  do!  "  cries  Miss  Sukey,  with  looks  of  genuine 
loathing. 

"Let  him  depart  from  among  us!"  cries  Rudge. 
"Never  do  I  wish  to  see  his  ugly  face  again!"  ex- 
claims the  gentle  Susan. 

"  I  am  going  as  soon  as  Dr.  Barnard's  chaise  comes," 
I  said.  "My  boxes  are  in  the  passage  now,  ready 
packed." 

"Ready  packed,  are  they?  Is  there  any  more  of  our 
money  in  them,  you  little  miscreant?  Pa,  is  your  silver 
tankard  in  the  cupboard,  and  is  the  spoons  safe?" 

I  think  poor  Sukey  had  been  drinking  to  drive  away 
the  mortifications  of  the  morning  in  the  court-house. 
She  became  more  excited  and  violent  with  every  word 
she  spoke,  and  shrieked  and  clenched  her  fists  at  me  like 
a  madwoman. 

"  Susanna,  you  have  had  false  witness  bore  against 
you,  my  child;  and  you  are  not  the  first  of  your  name. 
But  be  calm,  be  calm;  it's  our  duty  to  be  calm! " 

"Eh!"  (here  she  gives  a  grunt.)  "Calm  with  that 
sneak— that  pig— that  liar— that  beast!  Where's  Ed- 
ward Bevil?  Why  don't  he  come  forward  like  a  man, 
and  flog  the  young  scoundrel's  life  out?"  shrieks  Su- 
sanna. "  Oh,  with  this  here  horsewhip,  how  I  would  like 
to  give  it  you !  "  ( She  clutched  her  father's  whip  from 
the  dresser,  where  it  commonly  hung  on  two  hooks.) 
"Oh,  you— you  villain!  you  have  got  your  pistol,  have 
you?  Shoot  me,  you  little  coward,  I  ain't  afraid  of  you! 
You  have  your  pistol  in  your  box,  have  you!"   (I  use- 


THE   LAST   OF   MY   SCHOOL-DAYS  143 

lessly  said  as  much  in  reply  to  this  taunt.)  "  Stop!  I 
say,  Pa, — that  young  thief  isn't  going  away  with  them 
boxes,  and  robbing  the  whole  house  as  he  may.  Open 
the  boxes  this  instant!  We'll  see  he's  stole  nothing! 
Open  them,  I  say!" 

I  said  I  would  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  ]My  blood 
was  boiling  up  at  this  brutal  behaviour;  and  as  she 
dashed  out  of  the  room  to  seize  one  of  my  boxes,  I  put 
myself  before  her,  and  sat  down  on  it. 

This  was  assuredly  a  bad  position  to  take,  for  the 
furious  vixen  began  to  strike  me  and  lash  at  my  face 
with  the  riding-whip,  and  it  was  more  than  I  could  do  to 
wrench  it  from  her. 

Of  course,  at  this  act  of  defence  on  my  j)art,  JNIiss 
Sukey  yelled  for  help,  and  called  out,  "Edward!  Ned 
Bevil!  The  coward  is  a-striking  me!  Help,  Ned!" 
At  this,  the  shop  door  flies  open,  and  Sukey's  champion 
is  about  to  rush  on  me,  but  he  breaks  down  over  my  other 
box  with  a  crash  of  his  shins,  and  frightful  execrations. 
His  nose  is  prone  on  the  pavement;  Miss  Sukey  is 
wildly  laying  about  her  with  her  horsewhip  (and  I 
think  Bevil's  jacket  came  in  for  most  of  the  blows)  ;  we 
are  all  Jiiggledy-piggledy,  plunging  and  scuffling  in  the 
dark — when  a  carriage  drives  up,  which  I  had  not  heard 
in  the  noise  of  action,  and  as  the  hall  door  opened,  I  was 
pleased  to  think  that  Dr.  Barnard  had  arrived,  accord- 
ing to  his  promise. 

It  was  not  the  Doctor.  The  new  comer  wore  a  gown, 
but  not  a  cassock.  Soon  after  my  trial  before  the  mag- 
istrates was  over,  our  neighbour,  John  Jephson,  of 
Winchelsea,  mounted  his  cart  and  rode  home  from  Rye 
market.  He  straightway  went  to  our  house,  and  told 
my  mother  of  the  strange  scene  which  had  just  occurred, 


144  DENIS  DUVAL 

and  of  my  accusation  before  the  magistrates  and  ac- 
quittal. She  begged,  she  ordered  Jephson  to  lend  her 
his  cart.  She  seized  whip  and  reins;  she  drove  over  to 
Rye;  and  I  don't  envy  Jephson's  old  grey  mare  that 
journey  with  such  a  charioteer  behind  her.  The  door, 
opening  from  the  street,  flung  light  into  the  passage ;  and 
behold,  we  three  warriors  were  sprawling  on  the  floor  in 
the  higgledy-piggledy  stage  of  the  battle  as  my  mother 
entered ! 

What  a  scene  for  a  mother  with  a  strong  arm,  a  warm 
heart,  and  a  high  temper!  Madame  Duval  rushed  in- 
stantly at  INIiss  Susan,  and  tore  her  shrieking  from  my 
body,  which  fair  Susan  was  pummelling  with  the  whip. 
A  part  of  Susan's  cap  and  tufts  of  her  red  hair  were 
torn  off  by  this  maternal  Amazon,  and  Susan  was 
hurled  through  the  open  door  into  the  kitchen,  where  she 
fell  before  her  frightened  father.  I  don't  know  how 
many  blows  my  parent  inflicted  upon  this  creature. 
Mother  might  have  slain  her,  but  that  the  chaste  Su- 
sanna, screaming  shrilly,  rolled  under  the  deal  kitchen 
table. 

JNIadame  Duval  had  wrenched  away  from  this  young 
person  the  horsewhip  with  which  Susan  had  been  oper- 
ating upon  the  shoulders  of  her  only  son,  and  snatched 
the  weapon  as  her  fallen  foe  dropped.  And  now  my 
mamma,  seeing  old  Mr.  Rudge  sitting  in  a  ghastly  state 
of  terror  in  the  corner,  rushed  at  the  grocer,  and  in  one 
minute,  with  butt  and  thong,  inflicted  a  score  of  lashes 
over  his  face,  nose,  and  eyes,  for  which  anybody  who 
chooses  may  pity  him.  "Ah,  you  will  call  my  boy  a 
thief,  will  you  ?  Ah,  you  will  take  my  Denny  before  the 
justices,  will  you?  Prends  moi  9a,  gredin!  Attrape, 
lache!     Nimmt   noch   ein   paar    Schlage,    Spitzbube!" 


THE   LAST   OF   MY   SCHOOL-DAYS  145 

cries  out  mother,  in  that  polyglot  language  of  English, 
French,  High-Dutch,  which  she  always  used  when  ex- 
cited. My  good  mother  could  shave  and  dress  gentle- 
men's heads  as  well  as  any  man ;  and  faith  I  am  certain 
that  no  man  in  all  Europe  got  a  better  dressing  than 
Mr.  Rudge  on  that  evening. 

Bless  me!  I  have  written  near  a  page  to  describe  a 
battle  which  could  not  have  lasted  five  minutes. 
Mother's  cart  was  drawn  up  at  the  side-street  whilst  she 
was  victoriously  engaged  within.  Meanwhile,  Dr. 
Barnard's  chaise  had  come  to  the  front  door  of  the  shop, 
and  he  strode  through  it,  and  found  us  conquerors  in 
possession  of  both  fields.  Since  my  last  battle  with 
Bevil,  we  both  knew  that  I  was  more  than  a  match  for 
him.  "  In  the  king's  name,  I  charge  you  drop  your  dag- 
gers," as  the  man  says  in  the  play.  Our  wars  were  over 
on  the  appearance  of  the  man  of  peace.  Mother  left 
off  plying  the  horsewhip  over  Rudge ;  Miss  Sukey  came 
out  from  under  the  table;  Mr.  Bevil  rose,  and  slunk  off 
to  wash  his  bleeding  face ;  and  when  the  wretched  Rudge 
whimpered  out  that  he  would  have  the  law  for  this  as- 
sault, the  Doctor  sternly  said,  "  You  were  three  to  one 
during  part  of  the  battle,  three  to  two  afterwards, 
and  after  your  testimony  to-day,  you  perjured  old  mis- 
creant, do  you  suppose  any  magistrate  will  believe 
youf 

No.  Nobody  did  believe  them.  A  punishment  fell 
on  these  bad  people.  I  don't  know  who  gave  the  name, 
but  Rudge  and  his  daughter  were  called  Ananias  and 
Sapphira  in  Rye;  and  from  that  day  the  old  man's  af- 
fairs seemed  to  turn  to  the  bad.  When  our  boys  of 
Pocock's  met  the  grocer,  his  daughter,  or  his  appren- 
tice, the  little  miscreants  would  cry  out,  "  Who  put  the 


146  DENIS  DUVAL 

money  in  Denny's  box?"  "Who  bore  false  witness 
against  his  neighbour?"  "Kiss  the  book,  Sukey  my 
dear,  and  tell  the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing 
but  the  truth,  do  j^ou  hear? "  They  had  a  dreadful  life, 
that  poor  grocer's  family.  As  for  that  rogue  Tom  Par- 
rot, he  comes  into  the  shop  one  market  day  when  the 
the  place  was  full,  and  asks  for  a  penn'orth  of  sugar- 
candy,  in  payment  for  which  he  offers  a  penny  to  old 
Rudge  sitting  at  his  books  behind  his  high  desk.  "  It's 
a  good  bit  of  money,"  says  Tom  (as  bold  as  the  brass 
which  he  was  tendering) .  "  It  aint  marked,  Mr.  Rudge, 
like  Denny  Duval's  money! "  And,  no  doubt,  at  a  sig- 
nal from  the  young  reprobate,  a  chorus  of  boys  posted 
outside  began  to  sing,  "Ananias,  Ananias!  He  pre- 
tends to  be  so  pious!    Ananias  and  Saphia "    Well, 

well,  the  SajDhia  of  these  young  wags  v/as  made  to 
rhyme  incorrectly  with  a  word  beginning  with  L.  Nor 
was  this  the  only  punishment  which  befell  the  unhappy 
Rudge :  Mrs.  Wing  and  several  of  his  chief  patrons  took 
away  their  custom  from  him  and  dealt  henceforth  with 
the  opposition  grocer.  Not  long  after  my  affair.  Miss 
Sukey  married  the  toothless  apprentice,  who  got  a  bad 
bargain  with  her,  sweetheart  or  wife.  I  shall  have  to  tell 
presently  what  a  penalty  they  (and  some  others)  had 
to  pay  for  their  wickedness;  and  of  an  act  of  contrition 
on  poor  Miss  Sukey 's  part,  whom,  I  am  sure,  I  heartily 
forgive.  Then  was  cleared  up  that  mystery  (which  I 
could  not  understand,  that  Dr.  Barnard  could  not,  or 
would  not)  of  the  persecutions  directed  against  a  humble 
lad,  who  never,  except  in  self-defence,  did  harm  to  any 
mortal. 

I  shouldered  the  trunks,  causes  of  the  late  lamentable 
war,  and  put  them  into  mother's  cart,  into  which  I  was 


THE   LAST   OF   MY   SCHOOL-DAYS  147 

about  to  mount,  but  the  shrewd  old  lady  would  not  let 
me  take  a  place  beside  her.  "  I  can  drive  well  enough. 
Go  thou  in  the  chaise  with  the  Doctor.  He  can  talk  to 
thee  better,  my  son,  than  an  ignorant  woman  like  me. 
Neighbour  Jephson  told  me  how  the  good  gentleman 
stood  by  thee  in  the  justice-court.  If  ever  I  or  mine 
can  do  anything  to  repay  him,  he  may  command  me. 
Houp,  Schimmel!  Fort!  Shalt  soon  be  to  house!" 
And  with  this  she  was  off  with  my  bag  and  baggage, 
as  the  night  was  beginning  to  fall. 

I  went  out  of  the  Rudges'  house,  into  which  I  have 
never  since  set  foot.  I  took  my  place  in  the  chaise  by 
my  kind  Dr.  Barnard.  We  passed  through  Winchelsea 
gate,  and  dipped  down  into  the  marshy  plain  beyond, 
with  bright  glimpses  of  the  Channel  shining  beside  us, 
and  the  stars  glittering  overhead.  We  talked  of  the 
affair  of  the  day,  of  course — the  affair  most  interesting, 
that  is,  to  me,  who  could  think  of  nothing  but  magis- 
trates, and  committals,  and  acquittals.  The  Doctor  re- 
peated his  firm  conviction  that  there  was  a  great  smug- 
gling conspiracy  all  along  the  coast  and  neighbourhood. 
Master  Rudge  was  a  member  of  the  fraternity  (which, 
indeed,  I  knew,  having  been  out  with  his  people  once  or 
twice,  as  I  have  told,  to  my  shame).  "Perhaps  there 
were  other  people  of  my  acquaintance  who  belonged  to 
the  same  society?"  the  Doctor  said,  dryly.  "Gee  up, 
Daisy!  There  were  other  people  of  my  acquaintance, 
who  were  to  be  found  at  Winchelsea  as  well  as  at  Rye. 
Your  precious  one-eyed  enemy  is  in  it;  so,  I  have  no 
doubt,  is  Monsieur  le  Chevalier  de  la  JNIotte;  so  is — 
can  you  guess  the  name  of  any  one  besides,  Denny?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  I  said,  sadly;  I  knew  my  own  grandfather 
was  engaged  in  that  traffic.     "  But  if —if  others  are,  I 


148  DENIS  DUVAL 

promise  you,  on  my  honour,  I  never  will  embark  in  it," 
I  added. 

"  'Twill  be  more  dangerous  now  than  it  has  been. 
There  will  be  obstacles  to  crossing  the  Channel  which 
the  contraband  gentlemen  have  not  known  for  some  time 
past.    Have  you  not  heard  the  news? " 

"  What  news? "  Indeed  I  had  thought  of  none  but  my 
own  affairs.  A  post  had  come  in  that  very  evening  from 
London,  bringing  intelligence  of  no  little  importance 
even  to  poor  me,  as  it  turned  out.  And  the  news  was 
that  his  Majesty  the  King,  having  been  informed  that  a 
treaty  of  amity  and  commerce  had  been  signed  between 
the  Court  of  France  and  certain  persons  employed  by 
his  Majesty's  revolted  subjects  in  North  America,  "has 
judged  it  necessary  to  send  orders  to  his  ambassador  to 
withdraw  from  the  French  Court,  ....  and  relying 
with  the  firmest  confidence  upon  the  zealous  and  affec- 
tionate support  of  his  faithful  people,  he  is  determined 
to  prepare  to  exert,  if  it  should  be  necessary,  all  the 
forces  and  resources  of  his  kingdoms,  which  he  trusts 
will  be  adequate  to  repel  every  insult  and  attack,  and 
to  maintain  and  uphold  the  power  and  reputation  of  this 
country." 

So  as  I  was  coming  out  of  Rye  court-house,  thinking 
of  nothing  but  my  enemies,  and  my  trials,  and  my 
triumphs,  post-boys  were  galloping  all  over  the  land  to 
announce  that  we  were  at  war  with  France.  One  of 
them,  as  we  made  our  way  home,  clattered  past  us  with 
his  twanging  horn,  crying  his  news  of  war  with  France. 
As  we  wound  along  the  plain,  we  could  see  the  French 
lights  across  the  Channel.  My  life  has  lasted  for  fifty 
years  since  then,  and  scarcely  ever  since,  but  for  very 
very  brief  intervals,  has  that  baleful  war-light  ceased  to 
burn. 


THE   LAST   OF   MY   SCHOOL-DAYS  149 

The  messenger  who  bore  this  important  news  arrived 
after  we  left  Rye,  but,  riding  at  a  much  quicker  pace 
than  that  which  our  Doctor's  nag  practised,  overtook 
us  ere  we  had  reached  our  own  town  of  Winchelsea. 
All  our  town  was  alive  with  the  news  in  half -an-hour ; 
and  in  the  market-place,  the  public-houses,  and  from 
house  to  house,  people  assembled  and  talked.  So  we 
were  at  war  again  with  our  neighbours  across  the  Chan- 
nel, as  well  as  with  our  rebellious  children  in  America; 
and  the  rebellious  children  were  having  the  better  of  the 
parent  at  this  time.  We  boys  at  Pocock's  had  fought 
the  war  stoutly  and  with  great  elation  at  first.  Over 
our  maps  we  had  pursued  the  rebels,  and  beaten  them  in 
repeated  encounters.  We  routed  them  on  Long  Island. 
We  conquered  them  at  Brandywine.  We  vanquished 
them  gloriously  at  Bunker's  Hill.  We  marched  trium- 
phantly into  Philadelphia  with  Howe.  We  were  quite 
bewildered  when  we  had  to  surrender  with  General 
Burgoyne  at  Saratoga;  being,  somehow,  not  accus- 
tomed to  hear  of  British  armies  surrendering,  and  Brit- 
ish valour  being  beat.  "We  had  a  half -holiday  for 
Long  Island,"  says  Tom  Parrot,  sitting  next  to  me  in 
school,  "  I  suppose  we  shall  be  flogged  all  round  for 
Saratoga."  As  for  those  Frenchmen,  we  knew  of  their 
treason  for  a  long  time  past,  and  were  gathering  up 
wrath  against  them.  Protestant  Frenchmen,  it  was 
agreed,  were  of  a  diff'erent  sort ;  and  I  think  the  banished 
Huguenots  of  France  have  not  been  unworthy  subjects 
of  our  new  sovereign. 

There  was  one  dear  little  Frenchwoman  in  Winchel- 
sea who  I  own  was  a  sad  rebel.  When  Mrs.  Barnard, 
talking  about  the  war,  turned  round  to  Agnes  and  said, 
"Agnes  my  child,  on  what  side  are  you? "    Mademoiselle 


150  DENIS  DUVAL 

de  Barr  blushed  very  red,  and  said,  "  I  am  a  French 
girl,  and  I  am  of  the  side  of  my  country.  Vive  la 
France!  vive  le  Roi!" 

"Oh,  Agnes!  oh,  you  perverted,  ungrateful  lit- 
tle, little  monster!"  cries  Mrs.  Barnard,  beginning  to 
weep. 

But  the  Doctor,  far  from  being  angry,  smiled  and 
looked  pleased;  and  making  Agnes  a  mock  reverence, 
he  said,  "  ^lademoiselle  de  Saverne,  I  think  a  little 
Frenchwoman  should  be  for  France;  and  here  is  the 
tray,  and  we  won't  fight  until  after  supper."  And  as 
he  spoke  that  night  the  prayer  appointed  by  his  Church 
for  the  time  of  war — prayed  that  we  might  be  armed 
with  His  defence  who  is  the  onlj^  giver  of  all  victory — I 
thought  I  never  heard  the  good  man's  voice  more  touch- 
ing and  solemn. 

When  this  daily  and  nightly  ceremony  was  performed 
at  the  Rectory,  a  certain  little  person  who  belonged  to 
the  Roman  Catholic  faith  used  to  sit  aloof,  her  spiritual 
instructors  forbidding  her  to  take  part  in  our  English 
worship.  When  it  was  over,  and  the  Doctor's  house- 
hold had  withdrawn.  Miss  Agnes  had  a  flushed,  almost 
angry  face. 

"  But  what  am  I  to  do,  aunt  Barnard? "  said  the  little 
rebel.  "  If  I  pray  for  you,  I  pray  that  my  country  may 
be  conquered,  and  that  you  may  be  saved  and  delivered 
out  of  our  hands." 

"  No,  faith,  my  child,  I  think  we  will  not  call  upon 
thee  for  Amen,"  sslvs  the  Doctor,  patting  her  cheek. 

"  I  don't  know  why  you  should  wish  to  prevail  over 
my  country,"  whimpers  the  little  maid.  "  I  am  sure  I 
won't  pray  that  any  harm  may  happen  to  you,  and  aunt 
Barnard,  and  Denny— never,  never ! "    And  in  a  passion 


THE   LAST  OF  MY   SCHOOL-DAYS  151 

of  tears  she  buried  her  head  against  the  breast  of  the 
good  man,  and  we  were  all  not  a  little  moved. 

Hand  in  hand  Ave  two  young  ones  walked  from  the 
Rectory  to  the  Priory  House,  which  was  only  too  near. 
I  paused  ere  I  rang  at  the  bell,  still  holding  her  wistful 
little  hand  in  mine. 

"  Yojt  will  never  be  my  enemy,  Denny,  will  you?" 
she  said,  looking  up. 

"  My  dear,"  I  faltered  out,  "  I  will  love  you  for  ever 
and  ever!"  I  thought  of  the  infant  whom  I  brought 
home  in  my  arms  from  the  seashore,  and  once  more  my 
dearest  maiden  was  held  in  them,  and  my  heart  throbbed 
with  an  exquisite  bliss. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

I   ENTER   HIS   M4JESTy's   NAVY 

I  PROMISE  you  there  was  no  doubt  or  hesitation 
next  Sunday  regarding  our  good  rector's  opinions. 
Ever  since  the  war  with  America  began,  he  had,  to  the 
best  of  his  power,  exhorted  his  people  to  be  loyal,  and 
testified  to  the  authority  of  Caesar.  "  War,"  he  taught, 
"  is  not  altogether  an  evil ;  and  ordained  of  Heaven,  as 
our  illnesses  and  fevers  doubtless  are,  for  our  good.  It 
teaches  obedience  and  contentment  under  privations; 
it  fortifies  courage ;  it  tests  loyalty ;  it  gives  occasion  for 
showing  mercifulness  of  heart;  moderation  in  victory; 
endurance  and  cheerfulness  under  defeat.  The  brave 
who  do  battle  victoriously  in  their  country's  cause  leave 
a  legacy  of  honour  to  their  children.  We  English  of 
the  present  day  are  the  better  for  Cre9y,  and  Agincourt, 
and  Blenheim.  I  do  not  grudge  the  Scots  their  day  of 
Bannockburn,  nor  the  French  their  Fontenoy.  Such 
valour  proves  the  manhood  of  nations.  When  we  have 
conquered  the  American  rebellion,  as  I  have  no  doubt 
we  shall  do,  I  trust  it  will  be  found  that  these  rebellious 
children  of  ours  have  comported  themselves  in  a  man- 
ner becoming  our  English  race,  that  they  have  been 
hardy  and  resolute,  merciful  and  moderate.  In  that 
Declaration  of  War  against  France,  which  has  just 
reached  us,  and  which  interests  all  England,  and  the 
men  of  this  coast  especially,  I  have  no  more  doubt  in  my 


I  ENTER  HIS   MAJESTY'S   NAVY    153 

mind  that  the  right  is  on  our  side,  than  I  have  that 
Queen  Ehzabeth  had  a  right  to  resist  the  Spanish  Ar- 
mada. In  an  hour  of  almost  equal  peril,  I  pray  we  may 
show  the  same  watchfulness,  constancy,  and  valour; 
bracing  ourselves  to  do  the  duty  before  us,  and  leaving 
the  issue  to  the  Giver  of  all  Victory." 

Ere  he  left  the  pulpit,  our  good  rector  announced 
that  he  would  call  a  meeting  for  next  market-day  in  our 
town-hall — a  meeting  of  gentry,  farmers,  and  seafaring 
men,  to  devise  means  for  the  defence  of  our  coast  and 
harbours.  The  French  might  be  upon  us  any  day;  and 
all  our  people  were  in  a  buzz  of  excitement.  Volunteers 
and  Fencibles  patrolling  our  shores,  and  fishermen's 
glasses  for  ever  on  the  look-out  towards  the  opposite 
coast. 

We  had  a  great  meeting  in  the  town-hall,  and  of  the 
speakers  it  was  who  should  be  most  loyal  to  King  and 
country.  Subscriptions  for  a  Defence  Fund  were 
straightway  set  afoot.  It  was  determined  the  Cinque 
Port  towns  should  raise  a  regiment  of  Fencibles.  In 
Winchelsea  alone  the  gentry  and  chief  tradesmen  agreed 
to  raise  a  troop  of  volunteer  horse  to  patrol  along  the 
shore  and  communicate  with  depots  of  the  regular  mili- 
tary formed  at  Dover,  Hastings,  and  Deal.  The  fish- 
ermen were  enrolled  to  serve  as  coast  and  look-out  men. 
From  Margate  to  Folkestone  the  coast  was  watched  and 
patrolled:  and  privateers  were  equipped  and  sent  to  sea 
from  many  of  the  ports  along  our  line.  On  the  French 
shore  we  heard  of  similar  warlike  preparations.  The 
fishermen  on  either  coast  did  not  harm  each  other  as  yet, 
though  presently  they  too  fell  to  blows :  and  I  have  sad 
reason  to  know  that  a  certain  ancestor  of  mine  did  not 
altogether  leave  off  his  relations  with  his  French  friends. 


154  DENIS  DUVAL 

However,  at  the  meeting  in  the  town-hall,  grandfather 
came  forward  with  a  subscription  and  a  long  speech.  He 
said  that  he  and  his  co-religionists  and  countrymen  of 
France  had  now  for  near  a  century  experienced  British 
hospitality  and  freedom;  that  when  driven  from  home 
by  Papist  persecution,  they  had  found  protection  here, 
and  that  now  was  the  time  for  French  Protestants  to 
show  that  they  w^ere  grateful  and  faithful  subjects  of 
King  George.  Grandfather's  speech  was  very  warmly 
received ;  that  old  man  had  lungs,  and  a  knack  of  speak- 
ing, which  never  failed  him.  He  could  spin  out  sen- 
tences by  the  yard,  as  I  knew,  who  had  heard  him  ex- 
pound for  half  hours  together  with  that  droning  voice 
which  had  long  ceased  (Heaven  help  me!)  to  carry  con- 
viction to  the  heart  of  grandfather's  graceless  grandson. 

When  he  had  done,  Mr.  George  Weston,  of  the 
Priory,  spoke,  and  with  a  good  spirit  too.  ( He  and  my 
dear  friend,  Mr.  Joe,  were  both  present,  and  seated  with 
the  gentlefolks  and  magistrates  at  the  raised  end  of  the 
hall.)  Mr.  George  said  that  as  Mr.  Duval  had  spoken 
for  the  French  Protestants,  he,  for  his  part,  could  vouch 
for  the  loyalty  of  another  body  of  men,  the  Roman 
Catholics  of  England.  In  the  hour  of  danger  he  trusted 
that  he  and  his  brethren  were  as  good  subjects  as  any 
Protestants  in  the  realm.  And  as  a  trifling  test  of  his 
loyalty — though  he  believed  his  neighbour  Duval  was  a 
richer  man  than  himself  (grandfather  shrieked  a  "No, 
no!"  and  there  was  a  roar  of  laughter  in  the  hall)  — he 
offered  as  a  contribution  to  a  defence  fund  to  lay  down 
two  guineas  for  Mr.  Duval's  one! 

"  I  will  give  my  guinea,  I  am  sure,"  says  grandfather, 
very  meekly,  "  and  may  that  poor  man's  mite  be  ac- 
cepted and  useful!" 


I  ENTER  HIS  MAJESTY'S   NAVY      155 

"One  guinea!"  roars  Weston;  "I  will  give  a  hun- 
dred guineas ! " 

"And  I  another  hundred,"  says  his  brother.  "  We  will 
show,  as  Roman  Catholic  gentry  of  England,  that  we 
are  not  inferior  in  loyalty  to  our  Protestant  brethren." 

"  Put  my  fazer-in-law  Peter  Duval  down  for  one  'on- 
dred  guinea!"  calls  out  my  mother,  in  her  deep  voice. 
"  Put  me  down  for  twenty-fife  guinea,  and  my  son  Denis 
for  twenty-fife  guinea!  We  have  eaten  of  English 
bread  and  we  are  grateful,  and  we  sing  with  all  our 
hearts,  God  save  King  George!" 

Mother's  speech  was  received  with  great  applause. 
Farmers,  gentry,  shopkeepers,  rich  and  poor,  crowded 
forward  to  oiFer  their  subscription.  Before  the  meet- 
ing broke  up,  a  very  handsome  sum  was  promised  for 
the  arming  and  equipment  of  the  Winchelsea  Fencibles ; 
and  old  Colonel  Evans,  who  had  been  present  at  Minden 
and  Fontenoy,  and  young  Mr.  Barlow,  who  had  lost  a 
leg  at  Brandywine,  said  that  they  would  superintend  the 
drilling  of  the  Winchelsea  Fencibles,  until  such  time  as 
his  Majesty  should  send  officers  of  his  own  to  command 
the  corps.  It  was  agreed  that  everybody  spoke  and 
acted  with  public  spirit.  "Let  the  French  land!"  was 
our  cry.  "  The  men  of  Rye,  the  men  of  Winchelsea,  the 
men  of  Hastings,  will  have  a  guard  of  honour  to  receive 
them  on  the  shore !  " 

That  the  French  intended  to  try  and  land  was  an 
opinion  pretty  general  amongst  us,  especially  when  his 
Majesty's  j)roclamation  came,  announcing  the  great 
naval  and  military  armaments  which  the  enemy  was  pre- 
paring. We  had  certain  communications  with  Bou- 
logne, Calais,  and  Dunkirk  still,  and  our  fishing-boats 
sometimes   went   as   far   as   Ostend.      Our    informants 


156  DENIS  DUVAL 

brought  us  full  news  of  all  that  was  going  on  in  those 
ports;  of  the  troops  assembled  there,  and  royal  French 
ships  and  privateers  fitted  out.  I  was  not  much  sur- 
prised one  night  to  find  our  old  Boulogne  ally  Bidois 
smoking  his  pipe  with  grandfather  in  the  kitchen,  and 
regaling  himself  with  a  glass  of  his  own  brandy,  which 
I  know  had  not  paid  unto  Cassar  Caesar's  due.  The 
pigeons  on  the  hill  were  making  their  journeys  still. 
Once,  when  I  went  up  to  visit  Farmer  Perreau,  I  found 
M.  de  la  Motte  and  a  companion  of  his  sending  off  one 
of  these  birds,  and  La  Motte's  friend  said  sulkily,  in 
German,  "What  does  the  little  Spitzbuhe  do  here?" 
"Versteht  vielleicht  Deutsch,"  murmured  La  Motte, 
hurriedly,  and  turned  round  to  me  with  a  grin  of  wel- 
come, and  asked  news  of  grandfather  and  my  mother. 

This  ally  of  the  Chevalier's  was  a  Lieutenant  Liitter- 
loh,  who  had  served  in  America  in  one  of  the  Hessian 
regiments  on  our  side,  and  who  was  now  pretty  often 
in  Winchelsea,  where  he  talked  magnificently  about  war 
and  his  own  achievements,  both  on  the  Continent  and  in 
our  American  provinces.  He  lived  near  Canterbury  as 
I  heard.  I  guessed,  of  course,  that  he  was  one  of  the 
"  Mackerel "  party,  and  engaged  in  smuggling,  like  La 
Motte,  the  Westons,  and  my  graceless  old  grandfather 
and  his  ally,  Mr.  Budge,  of  Bye.  I  shall  have  presently 
to  tell  how  bitterly  IMonsieur  de  la  ^lotte  had  afterwards 
to  rue  his  acquaintance  with  this  German. 

Knowing  the  Chevalier's  intimacy  with  the  gentlemen 
connected  with  the  Mackerel  fishery,  I  had  little  cause 
to  be  surprised  at  seeing  him  and  the  German  captain 
together ;  though  a  circumstance  now  arose,  which  might 
have  induced  me  to  suppose  him  engaged  in  practices  yet 
more  lawless  and  dangerous  than  smuggling.     I  was 


I  ENTER  HIS  MAJESTY'S   NAVY      157 

walking  up  to  the  hill— must  I  let  shp  the  whole  truth, 
madame,  in  my  memoirs?  Well,  it  never  did  or  will  hurt 
anybody;  and,  as  it  only  concerns  you  and  me,  may  be 
told  without  fear.  I  frequently,  I  say,  walked  up  the  hill 
to  look  at  these  pigeons,  for  a  certain  young  person  was 
a  great  lover  of  pigeons  too,  and  occasionally  would 
come  to  see  Farmer  Perreau's  columbarium.  Did  I  love 
the  sight  of  this  dear  white  dove  more  than  any  other? 
Did  it  come  sometimes  fluttering  to  my  heart?  Ah!  the 
old  blood  throbs  there  with  the  mere  recollection.  I  feel 
—shall  we  say  how  many  years  younger,  my  dear?  In 
fine,  those  little  walks  to  the  pigeon-house  are  among 
the  sweetest  of  all  our  stores  of  memories. 

I  was  coming  away,  then,  once  from  this  house  of  bill- 
ing and  cooing,  when  I  chanced  to  espy  an  old  school- 
mate, Thomas  Measom  by  name,  who  was  exceedingly 
proud  of  his  new  uniform  as  a  private  of  our  regiment 
of  Winchelsea  Fencibles,  was  never  tired  of  wearing  it, 
and  always  walked  out  with  his  firelock  over  his  shoulder. 
As  I  came  up  to  Tom,  he  had  just  discharged  his  piece, 
and  hit  his  bird  too.  One  of  Farmer  Perreau's  pigeons 
lay  dead  at  Tom's  feet— one  of  the  carrier  pigeons,  and 
the  young  fellow  was  rather  scared  at  what  he  had  done, 
especially  when  he  saw  a  httle  piece  of  paper  tied  under 
the  wing  of  the  slain  bird. 

He  could  not  read  the  message,  which  was  written  in 
our  German  handwriting,  and  was  only  in  three  lines, 
which  I  was  better  able  to  decipher  than  Tom.  I  sup- 
posed at  first  that  the  message  had  to  do  with  the  smug- 
gling business,  in  which  so  many  of  our  friends  were  en- 
gaged, and  Measom  walked  off  rather  hurriedty,  being 
by  no  means  anxious  to  fall  into  the  farmer's  hands,  who 
would  be  but  ill-pleased  at  having  one  of  his  birds  killed. 


158  DENIS  DUVAL 

I  put  the  paper  in  my  pocket,  not  telling  Tom  what 
I  thought  about  the  matter:  but  I  did  have  a  thought, 
and  determined  to  converse  with  my  dear  Doctor  Bar- 
nard regarding  it.  I  asked  to  see  him  at  the  Rectory, 
and  there  read  to  him  the  contents  of  the  paper  which 
the  poor  messenger  was  bearing  when  Tom's  ball 
brought  him  down. 

My  good  Doctor  was  not  a  little  excited  and  pleased 
when  I  interpreted  the  pigeon's  message  to  him,  and  es- 
pecially praised  me  for  my  reticence  with  Tom  upon  the 
subject.  "  It  may  be  a  mare's  nest  we  have  discovered, 
Denny,  my  boy,"  says  the  Doctor;  "  it  may  be  a  matter 
of  importance.  I  will  see  Colonel  Evans  on  this  subject 
to-night."  We  went  off  to  JNIr.  Evans's  lodgings:  he 
was  the  old  officer  who  had  fought  under  the  Duke  of 
Cumberland,  and  was,  like  the  Doctor,  a  justice  of  peace 
for  our  county.  I  translated  for  the  Colonel  the  paper, 
which  was  to  the  following  effect: — 

[Left  blank  by  Mr.  Thackeray.] 

Mr.  Evans  looked  at  a  paper  before  him,  containing 
an  authorised  list  of  the  troops  at  the  various  Cinque 
Port  stations,  and  found  the  poor  pigeon's  information 
quite  correct.  "Was  this  the  Chevalier's  writing?"  the 
gentleman  asked.  No,  I  did  not  think  it  was  M.  de  la 
Motte's  handwriting.  Then  I  mentioned  the  other  Ger- 
man in  whose  company  I  had  seen  M.  de  la  IMotte:  the 
Monsieur  Llitterloh  whom  Mr.  Evans  said  he  knew  quite 
w^ll.  "  If  Llitterloh  is  engaged  in  the  business,"  said 
Mr.  Evans,  "we  shall  know  more  about  it;"  and  he 
whispered  something  to  Dr.  Barnard.  Meanwhile  he 
praised  me  exceedingly  for  my  caution,  enjoined  me  to 


I  ENTER  HIS  MAJESTY'S  NAVY      159 

say  nothing  regarding  the  matter,  and  to  tell  my  com- 
rade to  hold  his  tongue. 

As  for  Tom  Measom  he  was  less  cautious.  Tom 
talked  about  his  adventures  to  one  or  two  cronies;  and 
to  his  parents,  who  were  tradesmen  like  my  own.  They 
occupied  a  snug  house  in  Winchelsea,  with  a  garden  and 
a  good  paddock.  One  day  their  horse  was  found  dead 
in  the  stable.  Another  day  their  cow  burst  and  died. 
There  used  to  be  strange  acts  of  revenge  perpetrated  in 
those  days ;  and  farmers,  tradesmen,  or  gentry,  who  ren- 
dered themselves  obnoxious  to  certain  parties,  had  often 
to  rue  the  enmity  which  they  provoked.  That  my  un- 
happy old  grandfather  was,  and  remained  in  the  smug- 
glers' league,  I  fear  is  a  fact  which  I  can't  deny  or  pal- 
liate. He  paid  a  heavy  penalty  to  be  sure,  but  my 
narrative  is  not  advanced  far  enough  to  allow  of  my 
telling  how  the  old  man  was  visited  for  his  sins. 

There  came  to  visit  our  Winchelsea  magistrates  Cap- 
tain Pearson,  of  the  "  Serapis "  frigate,  then  in  the 
Downs;  and  I  remembered  this  gentleman,  having  seen 
him  at  the  house  of  my  kind  patron,  Sir  Peter  Denis,  in 
London.  Mr.  Pearson  also  recollected  me  as  the  little 
boy  who  had  shot  the  highwayman;  and  was  much  in- 
terested when  he  heard  of  the  carrier  pigeon,  and  the 
news  which  he  bore.  It  appeared  that  he,  as  well  as 
Colonel  Evans,  was  acquainted  with  Mr.  Liitterloh. 
"You  are  a  good  lad,"  the  Captain  said;  "but  we 
know,"  said  the  Captain,  "  all  the  news  those  birds 
carry." 

All  this  time  our  whole  coast  was  alarmed,  and  hourly 
expectant  of  a  French  invasion.  The  French  fleet  was 
said  to  outnumber  ours  in  the  Channel:  the  French 
army,  we  knew,  was  enormously  superior  to  our  own. 


160  DENIS  DUVAL 

I  can  remember  the  terror  and  the  excitement ;  the  panic 
of  some,  the  braggart  behaviour  of  others ;  and  specially 
I  recall  the  waj^  in  which  our  church  was  cleared  one 
Sunday,  by  a  rumour  which  ran  through  the  pews,  that 
the  French  were  actually  landed.  How  the  people 
rushed  away  from  the  building,  and  some  of  them  whom 
I  remember  the  loudest  amongst  the  braggarts,  and  sing- 
ing their  "Come  if  you  dare!"  Mother  and  I  in  our 
pew,  and  Captain  Pearson  in  the  rector's,  were  the  only 
people  who  sat  out  the  sermon,  of  which  Doctor  Barnard 
would  not  abridge  a  line,  and  which,  I  own,  I  thought 
was  extremely  tantalizing  and  provoking.  He  gave  the 
blessing  with  more  than  ordinary  slowness  and  solem- 
nity; and  had  to  open  his  own  pulpit-door  and  stalk 
down  the  steps  without  the  accompaniment  of  his  usual 
escort,  the  clerk,  who  had  skipped  out  of  his  desk,  and 
run  away  like  the  rest  of  the  congregation.  Doctor  Bar- 
nard had  me  home  to  dinner  at  the  Rectory;  my  good 
mother  being  much  too  shrewd  to  be  jealous  of  this 
kindness  shown  to  me  and  not  to  her.  When  she  waited 
upon  Mrs.  Barnard  with  her  basket  of  laces  and  per- 
fumeries, mother  stood  as  became  her  station  as  a  trades- 
woman. "  For  thee,  my  son,  'tis  different,"  she  said.  "  I 
will  have  thee  be  a  gentleman."  And  .faith,  I  hope  I 
have  done  the  best  of  my  humble  endeavour  to  fulfil  the 
good  lady's  wish. 

Tlie  war,  the  probable  descent  of  the  French,  and  the 
means  of  resisting  the  invasion,  of  course  formed  the 
subject  of  the  gentlemen's  conversation;  and  though  I 
did  not  understand  all  that  passed,  I  was  made  to  com- 
prehend subsequently,  and  may  as  well  mention  facts 
here  which  only  came  to  be  explained  to  me  later.  The 
pigeons  took  over  certain  information  to  France,  in  re- 


I  ENTER  HIS  MAJESTY'S  NAVY      161 

turn  for  that  which  they  brought.  By  these  and  other 
messengers  our  Government  was  kept  quite  well  in- 
structed as  to  the  designs  and  preparations  of  the  enemy, 
and  I  remember  how  it  was  stated  that  his  Majesty  had 
occult  correspondents  of  his  own  in  France,  whose  infor- 
mation was  of  surprising  accuracy.  Master  Llitterloh 
dabbled  in  the  information  line.  He  had  been  a  soldier 
in  America,  a  recruiting-crimp  here,  and  I  know  not 
what  besides;. but  the  information  he  gave  was  given 
under  the  authority  of  his  employers,  to  whom  in  return 
he  communicated  the  information  he  received  from 
France.  The  worthy  gentleman  was,  in  fact,  a  spy  by 
trade ;  and  though  he  was  not  born  to  be  hanged,  came 
by  an  awful  payment  for  his  treachery,  as  I  shall  have 
to  tell  in  due  time.  As  for  M.  de  la  Motte,  the  gentle- 
men were  inclined  to  think  that  his  occupation  was  smug- 
gling, not  treason,  and  in  that  business  the  Chevalier  was 
allied  with  scores,  nay  hundreds,  of  people  round  about 
him.  One  I  knew,  my  pious  grandpapa :  other  two  lived 
at  the  Priory,  and  I  could  count  many  more  even  in  our 
small  town,  namely,  all  the  Mackerel  men  to  whom  I  had 
been  sent  on  the  night  of  poor  Madame  de  Saverne's 
funeral. 

Captain  Pearson  shook  me  by  the  hand  very  warmly 
when  I  rose  to  go  home,  and  I  saw,  by  the  way  in  which 
the  good  Doctor  regarded  me,  that  he  was  meditating 
some  special  kindness  in  my  behalf.  It  came  very  soon, 
and  at  a  moment  when  I  was  plunged  in  the  very  dis- 
malest  depths  of  despair.  ^ly  dear  httle  Agnes,  though 
a  boarder  at  the  house  of  those  odious  Westons,  had  leave 
given  to  her  to  visit  Mrs.  Barnard ;  and  that  kind  lady 
never  failed  to  give  me  some  signal  by  which  I  knew  that 
my  little  sweetheart  was  at  the  Rectory.     One  day  the 


162  DENIS  DUVAL 

message  would  be,  "  The  rector  wants  back  his  volume 
of  the  'Arabian  Nights,'  and  Denis  had  better  bring  it." 
Another  time,  my  dearest  Mrs.  Barnard  would  write  on 
a  card,  "  You  may  come  to  tea,  if  you  have  done  your 
mathematics  well,"  or,  "  You  may  have  a  French  lesson," 
and  so  forth — and  there,  sure  enough,  would  be  my  sweet 
little  tutoress.  How  old,  my  dear,  was  Juliet  when  she 
and  young  Capulet  began  their  loves?  My  sweetheart 
had  not  done  playing  with  dolls  when  our  little  passion 
began  to  bud:  and  the  sweet  talisman  of  innocence  I 
wore  in  my  heart  hath  never  left  me  through  life,  and 
shielded  me  from  many  a  temptation. 

Shall  I  make  a  clean  breast  of  it?  We  young  hypo- 
crites used  to  write  each  other  little  notes,  and  pop  them 
in  certain  cunning  corners  known  to  us  two.  Juliet  used 
to  write  in  a  great  round  hand  in  French;  Romeo  re- 
plied, I  dare  say,  with  doubtful  spelling. 

We  had  devised  sundry  queer  receptacles  where  our 
letters  lay  2^oste  restante.  There  was  the  China  pot- 
pourri jar  on  the  Japan  cabinet  in  the  drawing-room. 
There,  into  the  midst  of  the  roses  and  spices,  two  cunning 
young  people  used  to  thrust  their  hands,  and  stir  about 
spice  and  rose-leaves,  until  they  lighted  upon  a  little  bit 
of  folded  paper  more  fragrant  and  precious  than  all 
your  flowers  and  cloves.  Then  in  the  hall  we  had  a  fa- 
mous post-office,  namely,  the  barrel  of  the  great  blun- 
derbuss over  the  mantelpiece,  from  which  hung  a  ticket 
on  which  "  loaded  "  was  written,  only  I  knew  better,  hav- 
ing helped  ]\Iartin,  the  Doctor's  man,  to  clean  the  gun. 
Then  in  the  churchyard  under  the  wing  of  the  left 
cherub  on  Sir  Jasper  Billing's  tomb,  there  was  a  certain 
hole  in  which  we  put  little  scraps  of  paper  written  in  a 
cipher  devised  by  ourselves,  and  on  these  scraps  of  paper 


I  ENTER  HIS  MAJESTY'S   NAVY      1G3 

we  wrote:  —  well,  can  you  guess  what?  We  wrote  the  old 
song  which  young  people  have  sung  ever  since  singing 
began.  We  wrote  "Amo,  amas,"  &c.,  in  our  childish 
handwriting.  Ah !  thanks  be  to  heaven,  though  the  hands 
tremble  a  little  now,  they  write  the  words  still !  My  dear, 
the  last  time  I  was  in  Winchelsea,  I  went  and  looked  at 
Sir  Jasper's  tomb,  and  at  the  hole  under  the  cherub's 
wing;  there  was  only  a  little  mould  and  moss  there. 
Mrs.  Barnard  found  and  read  one  or  more  of  these  let- 
ters, as  the  dear  lady  told  me  afterwards,  but  there  was 
no  harm  in  them ;  and  when  the  Doctor  put  on  his  grand 
serieuoc  (as  to  be  sure  he  had  a  right  to  do) ,  and  was  for 
giving  the  culprits  a  scolding,  his  wife  reminded  him  of 
a  time  when  he  was  captain  of  Harrow  School,  and 
f  ovind  time  to  write  other  exercises  than  Greek  and  Latin 
to  a  young  lady  who  lived  in  the  village.  Of  these  mat- 
ters, I  say,  she  told  me  in  later  days;  in  all  days,  after 
our  acquaintance  began,  she  was  my  truest  friend  and 
protectress. 

But  this  dearest  and  happiest  season  of  my  life  (for 
so  I  think  it,  though  I  am  at  this  moment  happy,  most 
happy,  and  thankful)  was  to  come  to  an  abrupt  ending, 
and  poor  Humpty  Dumpty  having  climbed  the  wall  of 
bliss,  was  to  have  a  great  and  sudden  fall,  which,  for  a 
while,  perfectly  crushed  and  bewildered  him.  I  have 
said  what  harm  came  to  my  companion  Tom  Measom, 
for  meddling  in  Monsieur  Liitterloh's  affairs  and  talk- 
ing of  them.  Now,  there  were  two  who  knew  Meinherr's 
secret,  Tom  Measom,  namely,  and  Denis  Duval;  and 
though  Denis  held  his  tongue  about  the  matter,  except 
in  conversing  with  the  rector  and  Captain  Pearson,  Liit- 
terloh  came  to  know  that  I  had  read  and  explained  the 
pigeon-despatch  of  which  Measom  had  shot  the  bearer; 


164  DENIS  DUVAL 

and,  indeed,  it  was  Captain  Pearson  himself,  with  whom 
the  German  had  sundry  private  deahngs,  who  was  Liit- 
terloh's  informer.  Liitterloh's  rage,  and  that  of  his  ac- 
comphce,  against  me,  when  they  learned  the  unlucky 
part  I  had  had  in  the  discovery,  were  still  greater  than 
their  wrath  against  Measom.  The  Chevalier  de  la 
Motte,  who  had  once  been  neutral,  and  even  kind  to  me, 
was  confirmed  in  a  steady  hatred  against  me,  and  held 
me  as  an  enemy  whom  he  was  determined  to  get  out  of 
his  way.  And  hence  came  that  catastrophe  which  pre- 
cipitated Humpy  Dumpty  Duval,  Esq.,  off  the  wall 
from  which  he  was  gazing  at  his  beloved,  as  she  disported 
in  her  garden  below. 

One  evening — shall  I  ever  forget  that  evening?  It 
was  Friday,  [left  blank  by  Mr.  Thackeray] —  after  my  little 
maiden  had  been  taking  tea  with  Mrs.  Barnard,  I  had 
leave  to  escort  her  to  her  home  at  Mr.  Weston's  at  the 
Priory,  which  is  not  a  hundred  yards  from  the  Rectory 
door.  All  the  evening  the  company  had  been  talking 
about  battle  and  danger,  and  invasion,  and  the  war 
news  from  France  and  America;  and  my  little  maiden 
sat  silent,  with  her  great  eyes  looking  at  one  speaker  and 
another,  and  stitching  at  her  sampler.  At  length  the 
clock  tolled  the  hour  of  nine,  when  Miss  Agnes  must 
return  to  her  guardian.  I  had  the  honour  to  serve  as  her 
escort,  and  would  have  wished  the  journey  to  be  ten 
times  as  long  as  that  brief  one  between  the  two  houses. 
"  Good  night,  Agnes! "  "  Good  night,  Denis!  On  Sun- 
day I  shall  see  you!"  We  whisper  one  little  minute 
under  the  stars;  the  little  hand  lingers  in  mine  with  a 
soft  pressure;  we  hear  the  servants'  footsteps  over  the 
marble  floor  within,  and  I  am  gone.  Somehow,  at  night 
and  at  morning,  at  lessons  and  play,  I  was  always  think- 
ing about  this  little  maid. 


I  ENTER  HIS  MAJESTY'S   NAVY      165 

"I  shall  see  you  on  Sunday,"  and  this  was  Frida}^! 
Even  that  interval  seemed  long  to  me.  Little  did  either 
of  us  know  that  a  long  separation  was  before  us,  and 
what  strange  changes,  dangers,  adventures,  I  was  to 
undergo  ere  I  again  should  press  that  dearest  hand. 

The  gate  closed  on  her,  and  I  walked  away  by  the 
church-wall,  and  towards  my  own  home.  I  was  thinking 
of  that  happy,  that  unforgotten  night  of  my  childhood, 
Avhen  I  had  been  the  means  of  rescuing  the  dearest  little 
maiden  from  an  awful  death ;  how,  since  then,  I  had  cher- 
ished her  with  my  love  of  love;  and  what  a  blessing  she 
had  been  to  my  young  life.  For  many  years  she  w^as  its 
only  cheerer  and  companion.  At  home  I  had  food  and 
shelter,  and,  from  mother  at  least,  kindness,  but  no  so- 
ciety; it  was  not  until  I  became  a  familiar  of  the  good 
Doctor's  roof  that  I  knew  friendship  and  kind  com- 
panionship. What  gratitude  ought  I  not  to  feel  for  a 
boon  so  precious  as  there  was  conferred  on  me?  Ah,  I 
vowed,  I  prayed,  that  I  might  make  myself  worthy  of 
such  friends;  and  so  was  sauntering  homewards,  lost  in 
these  happy  thoughts,  when — when  something  occurred 
which  at  once  decided  the  whole  course  of  my  after-life. 

This  something  was  a  blow  with  a  bludgeon  across  my 
ear  and  temple  which  sent  me  to  the  ground  utterly  in- 
sensible. I  remember  half-a-dozen  men  darkling  in  an 
alley  by  which  I  had  to  pass,  then  a  scuffle  and  an  oath 
or  two,  and  a  voice  crying,  "Give  it  him,  curse  him!" 
and  then  I  was  down  on  the  pavement  as  flat  and  lifeless 
as  the  flags  on  which  I  lay.  When  I  woke  up,  I  was 
almost  blinded  with  blood ;  I  was  in  a  covered  cart  with 
a  few  more  groaning  wretches;  and  when  I  uttered  a 
moan,  a  brutal  voice  growled  out  with  many  oaths  an 
instant  order  to  be  silent,  or  my  head  should  be  broken 
again.    I  woke  up  in  a  ghastl}^  pain  and  perplexity,  but 


166  DENIS  DUVAL 

presently  fiiinted  once  more.  When  I  awoke  again  to 
a  half -consciousness  I  felt  myself  being  lifted  from  the 
cart  and  carried,  and  then  flung  into  the  bows  of  a  boat, 
where  I  supj^ose  I  was  joined  by  the  rest  of  the  dismal 
cart's  company.  Then  some  one  came  and  washed  my 
bleeding  head  with  salt-water  (which  made  it  throb  and 
ache  very  cruelly).  Then  the  man,  whispering,  "I'm 
a  friend,"  bound  my  forehead  tight  with  a  handkerchief, 
and  the  boat  pulled  out  to  a  brig  that  was  lying  as  near 
to  land  as  she  could  come,  and  the  same  man  who  had 
struck  and  sworn  at  me  would  have  stabbed  me  once  more 
as  I  reeled  up  the  side,  but  that  my  friend  interposed  in 
my  behalf.  It  was  Tom  Hookham,  to  whose  family  I 
had  given  the  three  guineas,  and  who  assuredly  saved  my 
life  on  that  day,  for  the  villain  who  attempted  it  after- 
wards confessed  that  he  intended  to  do  me  an  injury.  I 
was  thrust  into  the  forepeak  with  three  or  four  more 
maimed  and  groaning  wretches,  and,  the  w^ind  serving, 
the  lugger  made  for  her  destination,  whatever  that  might 
be.  What  a  horrid  night  of  fever  and  pain  it  was!  I 
remember  I  fancied  I  was  carrying  Agnes  out  of  the 
water ;  I  called  out  her  name  repeatedly,  as  Tom  Hook- 
ham  informed  me,  who  came  with  a  lantern  and  looked 
at  us  poor  wretches  huddled  in  our  shed.  Tom  brought 
me  more  water,  and  in  pain  and  fever  I  slept  through 
a  wretched  night. 

In  the  morning  our  tender  came  up  with  a  frigate  that 
was  lying  off  a  town,  and  I  was  carried  up  the  ship's  side 
on  Hookham's  arm.  The  Captain's  boat  happened  to 
pull  from  shore  at  the  very  same  time,  and  the  Captain 
and  his  friends,  and  our  wretched  party  of  pressed  men 
with  their  captors,  thus  stood  face  to  face.  ]My  wonder 
and  delight  were  not  a  little  aroused  when  I  saw  the 


I  ENTER  HIS  MAJESTY'S   NAVY      167 

Captain  was  no  other  than  my  dear  rector's  friend,  Cap- 
tain Pearson.  My  face  was  bound  up,  and  so  pale  and 
bloody  as  to  be  scarcely  recognizable.  "  So,  my  man," 
he  said,  rather  sternly,  "  you  have  been  for  fighting,  have 
you?  This  comes  of  resisting  men  employed  on  his  Maj- 
esty's service." 

"I  never  resisted,"  I  said;  "I  was  struck  from  be- 
hind, Captain  Pearson." 

The  Captain  looked  at  me  with  a  haughty,  surprised 
air.  Indeed,  a  more  disreputable-looking  lad  he  scarcely 
could  see.  After  a  moment  he  said,  "  Whj^  bless  my 
soul,  is  it  you,  my  boy?    Is  it  young  Duval? " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  I  said ;  and  whether  from  emotion,  or 
fever,  or  loss  of  blood  and  w^eakness,  I  felt  my  brain 
going  again,  and  once  more  fainted  and  fell. 

When  I  came  to  myself,  I  found  myself  in  a  berth  in 
the  "  Serapis,"  w^here  there  happened  to  be  but  one  other 
patient.  I  had  had  fever  and  delirium  for  a  day,  during 
which  it  appears  I  was  constantly  calling  out,  "Agnes, 
Agnes ! "  and  offering  to  shoot  highwaymen.  A  very 
kind  surgeon's  mate  had  charge  of  me,  and  showed  me 
much  more  attention  than  a  poor  wounded  lad  could  have 
had  a  right  to  expect  in  my  wretched  humiliating  po- 
sition. On  the  fifth  day  I  was  well  again,  though  still 
very  weak  and  pale ;  but  not  too  weak  to  be  unable  to  go 
to  the  Captain  when  he  sent  for  me  to  his  cabin.  My 
friend  the  surgeon's  mate  showed  me  the  way. 

Captain  Pearson  was  writing  at  his  table,  but  sent 
away  his  secretary,  and  when  the  latter  w-as  gone  shook 
hands  with  me  very  kindly,  and  talked  unreservedly 
about  the  strange  accident  which  had  brought  me  on 
board  his  ship.  His  officer  had  information,  he  said, 
"  and  I  had  information,"  the  Captain  went  on  to  say, 


168  DENIS  DUVAL 

"  that  some  very  good  seamen  of  what  we  called  the 
Mackerel  party  were  to  be  taken  at  a  public-house  in 
Winchelsea,"  and  his  officer  netted  a  half-dozen  of  them 
there,  "who  will  be  much  better  employed"  (says  Cap- 
tain Pearson)  "in  serving  the  King  in  one  of  his  Maj- 
esty's vessels,  than  in  cheating  him  on  board  their  own. 
You  were  a  stray  fish  that  was  caught  along  with  the  rest. 
I  know  your  story.  I  have  talked  it  over  with  our  good 
friends  at  the  Rectory.  For  a  young  fellow,  you  have 
managed  to  make  yourself  some  queer  enemies  in  your 
native  town;  and  you  are  best  out  of  it.  On  the  night 
when  I  first  saw  you,  I  promised  our  friends  to  take  you 
as  a  first-class  volunteer.  In  due  time  you  will  pass  your 
examination,  and  be  rated  as  a  midshipman.  Stay — 
your  mother  is  in  Deal.  You  can  go  ashore,  and  she 
will  fit  you  out.  Here  are  letters  for  you.  I  wrote  to 
Dr.  Barnard  as  soon  as  I  found  who  you  were." 

With  this,  I  took  leave  of  my  good  patron  and  cap- 
tain, and  ran  off  to  read  my  two  letters.  One,  from  Mrs. 
Barnard  and  the  Doctor  conjointly,  told  how  alarmed 
they  had  been  at  my  being  lost,  until  Captain  Pearson 
wrote  to  say  how  I  had  been  found.  The  letter  from  my 
good  mother  informed  me,  in  her  rough  way,  how  she 
was  waiting  at  the  "  Blue  Anchor  Inn "  in  Deal,  and 
would  have  come  to  me;  but  my  new  comrades  would 
laugh  at  a  rough  old  woman  coming  off  in  a  shore-boat 
to  look  after  her  boy.  It  was  better  that  I  should  go  to 
her  at  Deal,  where  I  should  be  fitted  out  in  a  way  becom- 
ing an  officer  in  his  Majesty's  service.  To  Deal  accord- 
ingly I  went  by  the  next  boat;  the  good-natured  sur- 
geon's mate,  who  had  attended  me  and  taken  a  fancy  to 
me,  lending  me  a  clean  shirt,  and  covering  the  wound  on 
my  head  neatly,  so  that  it  was  scarcely  seen  under  my 


Denis's  Valet 


I  ENTER  HIS  MAJESTY'S   NAVY      169 

black  hair.  "Le  paiivre  cher  enfant!  comme  il  est 
pale! "  How  my  mother's  eyes  kindled  with  kindness  as 
she  saw  me !  The  good  soul  insisted  on  dressing  my  hair 
with  her  own  hands,  and  tied  it  in  a  smart  queue  with  a 
black  ribbon.  Then  she  took  me  off  to  a  tailor  in  the 
town,  and  provided  me  with  an  outfit  a  lord's  son  might 
have  brought  on  board.  My  uniforms  were  ready  in  a 
very  short  time.  Twenty-four  hours  after  they  were 
ordered  Mr.  Levy  brought  them  to  our  inn,  and  I  had 
the  pleasure  of  putting  them  on;  and  walked  on  the 
Parade,  with  my  hat  cocked,  my  hanger  by  my  side,  and 
mother  on  my  arm.  Though  I  was  perfectly  well 
pleased  with  myself,  I  think  she  was  the  prouder  of  the 
two.  To  one  or  two  tradesmen  and  their  wives,  whom 
she  knew,  she  gave  a  most  dignified  nod  of  recognition 
this  day ;  but  passed  on  without  speaking,  as  if  she  would 
have  them  understand  that  they  ought  to  keep  their  dis- 
tance when  she  was  in  such  fine  company.  "  When  I  am 
in  the  shop,  I  am  in  the  shop,  and  my  customers'  very 
humble  servant,"  said  she;  "  but  when  I  am  walking  on 
Deal  Parade  with  thee,  I  am  walking  with  a  young  gen- 
tleman in  his  Majesty's  navy.  And  Heaven  has  blessed 
us  of  late,  my  child,  and  thou  shalt  have  the  means  of 
making  as  good  a  figure  as  any  young  officer  in  the 
service."  And  she  put  such  a  great  heavy  purse  of 
guineas  into  my  pocket,  that  I  wondered  at  her  bounty. 
"  Remember,  my  son,"  added  she,  "  thou  art  a  gentleman 
now.  Always  respect  yourself.  Tradespeople  are  no 
company  for  thee.  For  me  'tis  different.  I  am  but  a 
poor  hairdresser  and  shopkeeper."  We  supped  together 
at  the  "Anchor,"  and  talked  about  home,  that  was  but 
two  days  off,  and  yet  so  distant.  She  never  once  men- 
tioned my  little  maiden  to  me,  nor  did  I  somehow  dare 


170  DENIS  DUVAL 

to  allude  to  her.  Mother  had  prepared  a  nice  bedroom 
for  me  at  the  inn,  to  which  she  made  me  retire  early,  as 
I  was  still  weak  and  faint  after  my  fever;  and  when  I 
was  in  my  bed  she  came  and  knelt  down  by  it,  and  with 
tears  rolling  down  her  furrowed  face,  offered  up  a 
prayer  in  her  native  German  language,  that  He  who  had 
been  pleased  to  succour  me  from  perils  hitherto,  would 
guard  me  for  the  future,  and  watch  over  me  in  the  voy- 
age of  life  which  was  now  about  to  begin.  Now,  as  it  is 
drawing  to  its  close,  I  look  back  at  it  with  an  immense 
awe  and  thankfulness,  for  the  strange  dangers  from 
which  I  have  escaped,  the  great  blessings  I  have  enjoyed. 

I  wrote  a  long  letter  to  Mrs.  Barnard,  narrating  my 
adventures  as  cheerfully  as  I  could,  though,  truth  to  say, 
when  I  thought  of  home  and  a  little  Someone  there,  a 
large  tear  or  two  blotted  my  paper,  but  I  had  reason  to 
be  grateful  for  the  kindness  I  had  received,  and  was  not 
a  little  elated  at  being  actually  a  gentleman,  and  in  a 
fair  way  to  be  an  officer  in  his  Majesty's  navy. 

As  I  was  strutting  on  the  Mall,  on  the  second  day  of 
my  visit  to  Deal,  what  should  I  see  but  my  dear  Dr.  Bar- 
nard's well-known  postchaise  nearing  us  from  the  Dover 
Boad?  The  Doctor  and  his  wife  looked  with  a  smiling 
surprise  at  my  altered  appearance ;  and  as  they  stepped 
out  of  their  chaise  at  the  inn,  the  good  lady  fairly  put 
her  arms  round  me,  and  gave  me  a  kiss.  Mother,  from 
her  room,  saw  the  embrace,  I  suppose.  "  Thou  hast 
found  good  friends  there,  Denis,  my  son,"  she  said,  with 
sadness  in  her  deep  voice.  "  'Tis  well.  They  can  be- 
friend thee  better  than  I  can.  Now  thou  art  well,  I  may 
depart  in  peace.  When  thou  art  ill,  the  old  mother  will 
come  to  thee,  and  will  bless  thee  always,  my  son."  She 
insisted  upon  setting  out  on  her  return  homewards  that 


I  ENTER  HIS  MAJESTY'S  NAVY    171 

afternoon.  She  had  friends  at  Hythe,  Folkestone,  and 
Dover  (as  I  knew  well) ,  and  would  put  up  with  one  or 
other  of  them.  She  had  before  packed  my  new  chest 
with  wonderful  neatness.  Whatever  her  feelings  might 
be  at  our  parting,  she  showed  no  signs  of  tears  or  sorrow, 
but  mounted  her  little  chaise  in  the  inn-yard,  and,  with- 
out looking  back,  drove  away  on  her  solitary  journey. 
The  landlord  of  the  "Anchor"  and  his  wife  bade  her 
farewell,  very  cordially  and  respectfully.  They  asked 
me,  would  I  not  step  into  the  bar  and  take  a  glass  of  wine 
or  spirits?  I  have  said  that  I  never  drank  either;  and 
suspect  that  my  mother  furnished  my  host  with  some  of 
these  stores  out  of  those  fishing-boats  of  which  she  was 
owner.  "  If  I  had  an  only  son,  and  such  a  good-looking 
one,"  Mrs.  Boniface  was  pleased  to  say  (can  I,  after 
such  a  fine  compliment,  be  so  ungrateful  as  to  forget 
her  name?)  — "  If  I  had  an  only  son,  and  could  leave  him 
as  well  off  as  Mrs.  Duval  can  leave  you,  1  wouldn't  send 
him  to  sea  in  war-time,  that  I  wouldn't."  "And  though 
you  don't  drink  any  wine,  some  of  your  friends  on  board 
may,"  my  landlord  added,  "  and  they  are  always  wel- 
come at  the  '  Blue  Anchor.'  "  This  was  not  the  first  time 
I  had  heard  that  my  mother  was  rich.  "  If  she  be  so," 
I  said  to  my  host,  "  indeed  it  is  more  than  I  know."  On 
which  he  and  his  wife  both  commended  me  for  my  cau- 
tion; adding  with  a  knowing  smile,  "We  know  more 
than  we  tell,  Mr.  Duval.  Have  you  ever  heard  of  Mr. 
Weston?     Have  you  ever  heard  of  Monsieur  de  la 

Motte?     We  know  where  Boulogne  is,  and  Ost " 

"Hush,  wife!"  here  breaks  in  my  landlord.  "If  the 
Captain  don't  wish  to  talk,  why  should  he?  There  is  the 
bell  ringing  from  the  '  Benbow '  and  your  dinner  going 
up  to  the  Doctor,  Mr.  Duval."    It  was  indeed  as  he  said, 


172  DENIS  DUVAL 

and  I  sat  down  in  the  company  of  my  good  friends, 
bringing  a  fine  apj^etite  to  their  table. 

The  Doctor  on  his  arrival  had  sent  a  messenger  to  his 
friend,  Captain  Pearson,  and  whilst  we  were  at  our  meal, 
the  Captain  arrived  in  his  own  boat  from  the  ship,  and 
insisted  that  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Barnard  should  take  their 
dessert  in  his  cabin  on  board.  This  procured  Mr.  Denis 
Duval  the  honour  of  an  invitation,  and  I  and  my  new 
sea-chest  were  accommodated  in  the  boat  and  taken  to  the 
frigate.  JNIy  box  was  consigned  to  the  gunner's  cabin, 
where  my  hammock  w^as  now  slung.  After  sitting  a  short 
time  at  Mr.  Pearson's  table,  a  brother-midshipman  gave 
me  a  hint  to  withdraw,  and  I  made  the  acquaintance  of 
my  comrades,  of  whom  there  were  about  a  dozen  on  board 
the  "  Serapis."  Though  only  a  volunteer,  I  was  taller 
and  older  than  many  of  the  midshipmen.  They  knew 
who  I  was,  of  course— the  son  of  a  shopkeeper  at  Win- 
chelsea.  Then,  and  afterwards,  I  had  my  share  of  rough 
jokes,  you  may  be  sure;  but  I  took  them  with  good  hu- 
mour ;  and  I  had  to  fight  my  way  as  I  had  learned  to  do 
at  school  before.  There  is  no  need  to  put  down  here  the 
number  of  black  eyes  and  bloody  noses  which  I  received 
and  delivered.  I  am  sure  I  bore  but  little  malice:  and, 
thank  heaven,  never  wronged  a  man  so  much  as  to  be 
obliged  to  hate  him  afterwards.  Certain  men  there  were 
who  hated  me:  but  they  are  gone,  and  I  am  here,  with  a 
pretty  clear  conscience,  heaven  be  praised ;  and  little  the 
worse  for  their  enmity. 

The  first  lieutenant  of  our  ship,  ^Mr.  Page,  was  related 
to  Mrs.  Barnard,  and  this  kind  lady  gave  him  such  a 
character  of  her  very  grateful,  humble  servant,  and  nar- 
rated my  adventures  to  him  so  pathetically,  that  Mr. 


I   ENTER  HIS   MAJESTY'S   NAVY    173 

Page  took  me  into  his  special  favour,  and  interested  some 
of  my  messmates  in  my  behalf.  The  story  of  the  high- 
wayman caused  endless  talk  and  jokes  against  me  which 
I  took  in  good  part,  and  established  my  footing  among 
my  messmates  by  adopting  the  plan  I  had  followed  at 
school,  and  taking  an  early  opportunity  to  fight  a  well- 
known  bruiser  amongst  our  company  of  midshipmen. 
You  must  know  they  called  me  "  Soapsuds,"  "  Powder- 
pufF,"  and  like  names,  in  consequence  of  my  grand- 
father's known  trade  of  hairdresser ;  and  one  of  my  com- 
rades bantering  me  one  day,  cried,  "  I  say.  Soapsuds, 
where  was  it  you  hit  the  highwayman?  "  "  There! "  said 
I,  and  gave  him  a  clean  left-handed  blow  on  his  nose, 
which  must  have  caused  him  to  see  a  hundred  blue  lights. 
I  know  about  five  minutes  afterwards  he  gave  me  just 
such  another  blow ;  and  we  fought  it  out  and  were  good 
friends  ever  after.  What  is  this?  Did  I  not  vow  as  I 
was  writing  the  last  page  yesterday  that  I  would  not  say 
a  word  about  my  prowess  at  fisticuffs?  You  see  we  are 
ever  making  promises  to  be  good,  and  forgetting  them. 
I  suppose  other  people  can  say  as  much. 

Before  leaving  the  ship  my  kind  friends  once  more 
desired  to  see  me,  and  IVIrs.  Barnard,  putting  a  finger  to 
her  lip,  took  out  from  her  pocket  a  little  packet,  which 
she  placed  in  my  hand.  I  thought  she  was  giving  me 
money,  and  felt  somehow  disappointed  at  being  so 
treated  by  her.  But  when  she  was  gone  to  shore  I 
opened  the  parcel,  and  found  a  locket  there,  and  a  little 
curl  of  glossy  black  hair.  Can  you  guess  whose  ?  Along 
with  the  locket  was  a  letter  in  French,  in  a  large  girlish 
hand,  in  which  the  writer  said,  that  night  and  day  she 
prayed  for  her  dear  Denis.    And  where,  think  you,  the 


174  DENIS  DUVAL 

locket  is  now?  where  it  has  been  for  forty-two  years,  and 
where  it  will  remain  when  a  faithful  heart  that  beats 
under  it  hath  ceased  to  throb. 

At  gunfire  our  friends  took  leave  of  the  frigate,  little 
knowing  the  fate  that  was  in  store  for  many  on  board 
her.  In  three  weeks  from  that  day  what  a  change  I  The 
glorious  misfortune  which  befell  us  is  written  in  the  an- 
nals of  our  country. 

On  the  very  evening  whilst  Captain  Pearson  was  en- 
tertaining his  friends  from  Winchelsea,  he  received 
orders  to  sail  for  Hull,  and  place  himself  under  the  com- 
mand of  the  Admiral  there.  From  the  Humber  we 
presently  were  despatched  northward  to  Scarborough. 
There  had  been  not  a  little  excitement  along  the  whole 
northern  coast  for  some  time  past,  in  consequence  of  the 
appearance  of  some  American  privateers,  who  had  ran- 
sacked a  Scottish  nobleman's  castle,  and  levied  contribu- 
tions from  a  Cumberland  seaport  town.  As  we  were 
close  in  with  Scarborough  a  boat  came  off  with  letters 
from  the  magistrates  of  that  place,  announcing  that  this 
squadron  had  actually  been  seen  off  the  coast.  The  com- 
modore of  this  wandering  piratical  expedition  was 
known  to  be  a  rebel  Scotchman:  who  fought  with  a  rope 
round  his  neck  to  be  sure.  No  doubt  many  of  us  young- 
sters vapoured  about  the  courage  with  which  we  would 
engage  him,  and  made  certain,  if  we  could  only  meet 
with  him,  of  seeing  him  hang  from  his  own  yard-arm. 
It  was  Diis  aliter  visum,  as  we  used  to  say  at  Pocock's ; 
and  it  was  we  threw  deuceace  too.  Traitor,  if  you  will, 
was  Monsieur  John  Paul  Jones,  afterwards  knight  of 
his  Most  Christian  Majesty's  Order  of  Merit;  but  a 
braver  traitor  never  wore  sword. 

We  had  been  sent  for  in  order  to  protect  a  fleet  of 


I  ENTER  HIS  MAJESTY'S   NAVY    175 

merchantmen  that  were  bound  to  the  Baltic,  and  were 
to  sail  under  the  convoy  of  our  ship  and  the  "  Countess 
of  Scarborough,"  commanded  by  Captain  Piercy.  And 
thus  it  came  about  that  after  being  twenty-five  days  in 
his  Majesty's  service,  I  had  the  fortune  to  be  present  at 
one  of  the  most  severe  and  desperate  combats  that  has 
been  fought  in  our  or  any  time. 

I  shall  not  attempt  to  tell  that  story  of  the  battle  of 
the  23rd  September,  which  ended  in  our  glorious  Cap- 
tain striking  his  own  colours  to  our  superior  and  irre- 
sistible enemy.  Sir  Richard  has  told  the  story  of  his  dis- 
aster in  words  nobler  than  any  I  could  supply,  who, 
though  indeed  engaged  in  that  fearful  action  in  which 
our  flag  went  down  before  a  renegade  Briton  and  his 
motley  crew,  saw  but  a  very  small  portion  of  the  battle 
which  ended  so  fatally  for  us.  It  did  not  commence  till 
nightfall.  How  well  I  remember  the  sound  of  the  en- 
emj^'s  gun  of  which  the  shot  crashed  into  our  side  in 
reply  to  the  challenge  of  our  captain  who  hailed  her! 
Then  came  a  broadside  from  us— the  first  I  had  ever 
heard  in  battle. 


NOTES    ON    DENIS    DUVAL 

THE  readers  of  the  Cornhill  Magazine  have  now 
read  the  last  line  written  by  William  Makepeace 
Thackeray  The  story  breaks  oiF  as  his  life  ended— full 
of  vigour,  and  blooming  with  new  promise  like  the  apple- 
trees  in  this  month  of  May :  ^  the  only  difference  be- 
tween the  work  and  the  life  is  this,  that  the  last  chapters 
of  the  one  have  their  little  pathetical  gaps  and  breaks  of 
unfinished  effort,  the  last  chapters  of  the  other  were  ful- 
filled and  complete.  But  the  life  may  be  left  alone; 
while  as  for  the  gaps  and  breaks  in  his  last  pages, 
nothing  that  we  can  write  is  likely  to  add  to  their  signifi- 
cance. There  they  are;  and  the  reader's  mind  has 
already  fallen  into  them,  with  sensations  not  to  be  im- 
proved by  the  ordinary  commentator.  If  Mr.  Thack- 
eray himself  could  do  it,  that  would  be  another  thing. 
Preacher  he  called  himself  in  some  of  the  Roundabout 
discourses  in  which  his  softer  spirit  is  always  to  be  heard, 
but  he  never  had  a  text  after  his  own  mind  so  much  as 
these  last  broken  chapters  would  give  him  now.  There 
is  the  date  of  a  certain  Friday  to  be  filled  in,  and  Time  is 
no  more.  Is  it  very  presumptuous  to  imagine  the 
Roundabout  that  Mr.  Thackeray  would  write  upon  this 
unfinished  work  of  his,  if  he  could  come  back  to  do  it? 
We  do  not  think  it  is,  or  very  difficult  either.    What  Car- 

^  The  last  number  of  "  Denis  Duval "  appeared  in  the  Cornhill 
Magazine  of  June,  1864'. 

176 


NOTES  ON  DENIS  DUVAL  177 

lyle  calls  the  divine  gift  of  speech  was  so  largely  his, 
especially  in  his  maturer  years,  that  he  made  clear  in 
what  he  did  say  pretty  much  what  he  would  say  about 
anything  that  engaged  his  thought;  and  we  have 
only  to  imagine  a  discourse  "  On  the  Two  Women  at 
the  JNIill,"^  to  read  off  upon  our  minds  the  sense  of 
what  Mr.  Thackeray  alone  could  have  found  language 
for. 

Vain  are  these  speculations — or  are  they  vain?  Not  if 
we  try  to  think  what  he  would  think  of  his  broken  la- 
bours, considering  that  one  of  these  days  our  labours 
must  be  broken  too.  Still,  there  is  not  much  to  be  said 
about  it:  and  we  pass  on  to  the  real  business  in  hand, 
which  is  to  show  as  well  as  we  may  what  "  Denis  Duval " 
would  have  been  had  its  author  lived  to  complete  his 
work.  Fragmentary  as  it  is,  the  story  must  always  be 
of  considerable  importance,  because  it  will  stand  as  a 
warning  to  imperfect  critics  never  to  be  in  haste  to  cry 
of  any  intellect,  "His  vein  is  worked  out:  there  is  no- 
thing left  in  him  but  the  echoes  of  emptiness."  The 
decriers  Mere  never  of  any  importance,  yet  there  is  more 
than  satisfaction,  there  is  something  like  triumph  in  the 
mind  of  every  honest  man  of  letters  when  he  sees,  and 
knows  everybody  must  see,  how  a  genius  which  was 
sometimes  said  to  have  been  guilty  of  passing  behind  a 
cloud  toward  the  evening  of  his  day,  came  out  to  shine 
with  new  splendour  before  the  day  was  done.  "  Denis 
Duval"  is  unfinished,  but  it  ends  that  question.  The 
fiery  genius  that  blazed  over  the  city  in  "  Vanity  Fair," 
and  passed  on  to  a  ripe  afternoon  in  "  Esmond,"  is  not 
a  whit  less  great,  it  is  only  broader,  more  soft,  more  mel- 

* "  Two  women  shall  be  grinding  at  the  mill,  one  shall  be  taken 
and  the  other  lett." 


178  NOTES   ON  DENIS   DUVAL 

low  and  kindly,  as  it  sinks  too  suddenly  in  "  Denis 
Duval." 

This  is  said  to  introduce  the  settlement  of  another  too- 
hasty  notion  which  we  believe  to  have  been  pretty  gen- 
erally accepted :  namely,  that  Mr.  Thackeray  took  little 
pains  in  the  construction  of  his  works.  The  truth  is,  that 
he  very  industriously  did  take  pains.  We  find  that  out 
when  we  inquire,  for  the  benefit  of  the  readers  of  his 
Magazine,  whether  there  is  anything  to  tell  of  his  de- 
signs for  "Denis  Duval."  The  answer  comes  in  the 
form  of  many  most  careful  notes,  and  memoranda  of 
inquiry  into  minute  matters  of  detail  to  make  the  story 
true.  How  many  young  novelists  are  there  who  haven  t 
much  genius  to  fall  back  upon,  who  yet,  if  they  desired 
to  set  their  hero  down  in  Winchelsea  a  hundred  years 
ago  for  instance,  would  take  the  trouble  to  learn  how 
the  town  was  built,  and  what  gate  led  to  Rye  (if  the 
hero  happened  to  have  any  deahngs  with  that  place), 
and  who  were  its  local  magnates,  and  how  it  was  gov- 
erned? And  yet  this  is  what  Mr.  Thackeray  did,  though 
his  investigation  added  not  twenty  lines  to  the  story  and 
no  "interest"  whatever:  it  was  simply  so  much  consci- 
entious effort  to  keep  as  near  truth  in  feigning  as  he 
could.  That  Winchelsea  had  three  gates,  "  Newgate  on 
S.W.,  Landgate  on  N.E.,  Strandgate  (leading  to  Rye) 
on  S.E.; "  that  "  the  government  was  vested  in  a  mayor 
and  twelve  jurats,  jointly;"  that  "it  sends  canopy 
bearers  on  occasion  of  a  coronation,"  &:c.  &c.  &c.,  all  is 
duly  entered  in  a  note-book  with  reference  to  authorities. 
And  so  about  the  refugees  at  Rye,  and  the  French  Re- 
formed church  there;  nothing  is  written  that  history 
cannot  vouch  for.  The  neat  and  orderly  way  in  which 
the  notes  are  set  down  is  also  remarkable.  Each  has  its 
heading,  as  thus: 


NOTES  ON  DENIS  DUVAL  179 

"  Refugees  at  Rye. — At  Rye  is  a  small  settlement  of  French 
refugees,  who  are  for  the  most  part  fishermen,  and  have  a  min- 
ister of  their  own. 

"  French  Reformed  Church. — Wherever  there  is  a  sufficient 
number  of  faithful  there  is  a  church.  The  pastor  is  admitted 
to  his  office  by  the  provincial  synod,  or  the  colloquy,  provided  it 
be  composed  of  seven  pastors  at  least.  Pastors  are  seconded  in 
their  duties  by  laymen,  who  take  the  title  of  Ancients,  El- 
ders, and  Deacons  precentors.  The  union  of  Pastors,  Deacons, 
and  Elders  forms  a  consistory." 

Of  course  there  is  no  considerable  merit  in  care  like 
this,  but  it  is  a  merit  which  the  author  of  "  Denis  Duval " 
is  not  popularly  credited  with,  and  therefore  it  may  as 
well  be  set  down  to  him.  Besides,  it  may  serve  as  an  ex- 
ample to  fledgeling  geniuses  of  what  he  thought  neces- 
sary to  the  perfection  of  his  work. 

But  the  chief  interest  of  these  notes  and  memoranda 
lies  in  the  outlook  they  give  us  upon  the  conduct  of  the 
story.  It  is  not  desirable  to  print  them  all;  indeed,  to 
do  so  would  be  to  copy  a  long  list  of  mere  references  to 
books,  magazines,  and  journals,  where  such  byway  bits  of 
illustration  are  to  be  found  as  lit  Mr.  Thackeray's  mind 
to  so  vivid  an  insight  into  manners  and  character.  Still, 
we  are  anxious  to  give  the  reader  as  complete  an  idea  of 
the  story  as  we  can. 

First,  here  is  a  characteristic  letter,  in  which  Mr. 
Thackeray  sketches  his  plot  for  the  information  of  his 
publisher: — 

"My  dear  S 

"  I  WAS  born  in  the  year  1764,  at  Winchelsea,  where  my  father 
was  a  grocer  and  clerk  of  the  church.  Everybody  in  the  place 
was  a  good  deal  connected  with  smuggling. 

"  There  used  to  come  to  our  house  a  very  noble  French  gen- 


180  NOTES  ON  DENIS  DUVAL 

tleman,  called  the  Count  de  la  Motte,  and  with  him  a  Ger- 
man, the  Baron  de  Lutterloh.  My  father  used  to  take  pack- 
ages to  Ostend  and  Calais  for  these  two  gentlemen,  and  perhaps 
I  went  to  Paris  once  and  saw  the  French  queen. 

"  The  squire  of  our  town  was  Squire  Weston  of  the  Priory, 
who,  with  his  brother,  kept  one  of  the  genteelest  houses  in  the 
country.  He  was  churchwarden  of  our  church,  and  much  re- 
spected. Yes,  but  if  you  read  the  Armual  Register  of  1781, 
you  will  find  that  on  the  13th  July  the  sheriffs  attended  at  the 
Tower  of  London  to  receive  custody  of  a  De  la  Motte,  a  pris- 
oner charged  with  high  treason.  The  fact  is,  this  Alsatian 
nobleman  being  in  difficulties  in  his  own  country  (where  he 
had  commanded  the  Regiment  Soubisc),  came  to  London,  and 
under  pretence  of  sending  prints  to  France  and  Ostend,  sup- 
plied the  French  Ministers  with  accounts  of  the  movements  of 
the  English  fleets  and  troops.  His  go-between  was  Lutterloh, 
a  Brunswickcr,  who  had  been  a  crimping-agent,  then  a  servant, 
who  was  a  spy  of  France  and  Mr.  Franklin,  and  who  turned 
king's  evidence  on  La  Motte,  and  hanged  him. 

"  This  Lutterloh,  who  had  been  a  crimping-agent  for  Ger- 
man troops  during  the  American  war,  then  a  servant  in  London 
during  the  Gordon  riots,  then  an  agent  for  a  spy,  then  a  spy 
over  a  spy,  I  suspect  to  have  been  a  consummate  scoundrel,  and 
doubly  odious  from  speaking  English  with  a  German  accent. 

"  What  if  he  wanted  to  marry  that  charming  girl,  who 
lived  with  Mr.  Weston  at  Winchelsea  ?  Ha !  I  see  a  mystery 
here. 

"  What  if  this  scoundrel,  going  to  receive  his  pay  from  the 
English  Admiral,  with  whom  he  was  in  communication  at  Ports- 
mouth, happened  to  go  on  board  the  '  Royal  George  '  the  day 
she  went  down.'* 

"  As  for  George  and  Joseph  Weston,  of  the  Priory,  I  am 
sorry  to  say  they  were  rascals  too.  They  were  tried  for  robbing 
the  Bristol  mail  in  1780;  and  being  acquitted  for  want  of  evi- 
dence, were  tried  immediately  after  on  another  indictment  for 
forgery — Joseph  was  acquitted,  but  George  was  capitally  con- 


NOTES  ON  DENIS  DUVAL  181 

victed.  But  this  did  not  help  poor  Joseph.  Before  their  trials, 
they  and  some  others  broke  out  of  Newgate,  and  Joseph  fired 
at,  and  wounded,  a  porter  who  tried  to  stop  him,  on  Snow  Hill. 
For  this  he  was  tried  and  found  guilty  on  the  Black  Act,  and 
hung  along  with  his  brother. 

"  Now,  if  I  was  an  innocent  participator  in  De  la  Motte'? 
treasons,  and  the  Westons'  forgeries  and  robberies,  what  prettj 
scrapes  I  must  have  been  in ! 

"  I  married  the  young  woman,  whom  the  brutal  Liitterlolt 
would  have  had  for  himself,  and  lived  happy  ever  after." 

Here,  it  will  be  seen,  the  general  idea  is  very  roughly 
sketched,  and  the  sketch  was  not  in  all  its  parts  carried 
out.  Another  letter,  never  sent  to  its  destination,  gives 
a  somewhat  later  account  of  Denis,— 

"  My  grandfather's  name  was  Duval ;  he  was  a  barber  and 
perruquier  by  trade,  and  elder  of  the  French  Protestant  Church 
at  Winchelsea.  I  was  sent  to  board  with  his  correspondent,  a 
Methodist  grocer,  at  Rye. 

"  These  two  kept  a  fishing-boat,  but  the  fish  they  caught  was 
many  and  many  a  barrel  of  Nantz  brandy,  which  we  landed — 
never  mind  where — at  a  place  to  us  well  known.     In  the  inno- 
cence of  my  heart,  I — a  child — got  leave  to  go  out  fishing.     We 
used  to  go  out  at  night  and  meet  ships  from  the  French  coast. 
"  I  learned  to  scuttle  a  marlinspike, 
reef    a    lee-scupper, 
keelhaul  a  bowsprit 
as  well  as  the  best  of  them.     How  well  I  remember  the  jabbering 
of  the  Frenchmen  the  first  night  as  they  handed  the  kegs  over 
to  us!     One  night  we  were  fired  into  by  his  Majesty's  revenue 
cutter  '  Lynx.'     I  asked  what  those  balls  were  fizzing  in  the 
water,  &c. 

"  I  wouldn't  go  on  with  the  smuggling ;  being  converted  by 
IMr.  Wesley,  who  came  to  preach  to  us  at  Rye — but  that  is 
neither  here  nor  there.  ,  .  ." 


182  NOTES  ON  DENIS  DUVAL 

In  these  letters  neither  "  my  mother,"  nor  the  Count 
de  Saverne  and  his  unhappy  wife  appear;  while  Agnes 
exists  only  as  "  that  charming  girl."  Count  de  la  Motte, 
the  Baron  de  Liitterloh,  and  the  Westons,  seem  to  have 
figured  foremost  in  the  author's  mind :  they  are  historical 
characters.  In  the  first  letter,  we  are  referred  to  the 
Annual  Register  for  the  story  of  De  la  Motte  and  Liit- 
terloh: and  this  is  what  we  read  there, — 

^*  January  5,  1781. — A  gentleman  was  taken  Into  custody 
for  treasonable  practices,  named  Henry  Francis  de  la  Motte, 
which  he  bore  with  the  title  of  baron  annexed  to  it.  He  has 
resided  in  Bond  Street,  at  a  Mr.  Otiey's,  a  woollen  draper,  for 
some  time. 

"  When  he  was  going  upstairs  at  the  Secretary  of  State's 
office,  in  Cleveland  Row,  he  dropped  several  papers  on  the  stair- 
case, which  were  immediately  discovered  by  the  messenger,  and 
carried  in  with  him  to  Lord  Hillsborough.  After  his  exami- 
nation, he  was  committed  a  close  prisoner  for  high  treason  to  the 
Tower.  The  papers  taken  from  him  are  reported  to  be  of  the 
highest  importance.  Among  them  are  particular  lists  of  every 
ship  of  force  In  any  of  our  yards  and  docks,  &c.  &c. 

"  In  consequence  of  the  above  papers  being  found,  Henry 
Liitterloh,  Esq.,  of  WIckham,  near  Portsmouth,  was  afterwards 
apprehended  and  brought  to  town.  The  messengers  found  Mr. 
Liitterloh  ready  booted  to  go  a  hunting.  When  he  understood 
their  business,  he  did  not  discover  the  least  embarrassment,  but 
delivered  his  keys  with  the  utmost  readiness Mr.  Liit- 
terloh is  a  German,  and  had  lately  taken  a  house  at  WIckham, 
within  a  few  miles  of  Portsmouth;  and  as  he  kept  a  pack  of 
hounds,  and  was  considered  as  a  good  companion,  he  was  well 
received  by  the  gentlemen  In  the  neighbourhood. 

"July  14,  1781. — Mr.  Liitterloh's  testimony  was  of  so  serious 
a  nature,  that  the  court  seemed  In  a  state  of  astonishment  during 
the  whole  of  his  long  examination.     He  said  that  he  embarked 


NOTES  ON  DENIS  DUVAL  183 

in  a  plot  with  the  prisoner  in  the  year  1778,  to  furnish  the 
French  court  with  secret  intelhgence  of  the  Navy;  for  which, 
at  first,  he  received  only  eight  guineas  a  month ;  the  importance 
of  his  information  appeared,  however,  so  clear  to  the  prisoner, 
that  he  shortly  after  allowed  him  fifty  guineas  a  month,  besides 
many  valuable  gifts ;  that,  upon  any  emergency,  he  came  post 
to  town  to  M.  de  la  Motte,  but  common  occurrences  relative  to 
their  treaty,  he  sent  by  the  post.  He  identified  the  papers 
found  in  his  garden,  and  the  seals,  he  said,  were  M.  de  la 
Motte's,  and  well  known  in  France.  He  had  been  to  Paris  by 
direction  of  the  prisoner,  and  was  closeted  with  Monsieur  Sar- 
tine,  the  French  Minister.  He  had  formed  a  plan  for  capturing 
Governor  Johnstone's  squadron,  for  which  he  demanded  8,000 
guineas,  and  a  third  share  of  the  ships,  to  be  divided  amongst 
the  prisoner,  himself,  and  his  friend  in  a  certain  office,  but  the 
French  court  would  not  agree  to  yielding  more  than  an  eighth 
share  of  the  squadron.  After  agreeing  to  enable  the  French 
to  take  the  commodore,  he  went  to  Sir  Hugh  Palliser,  and 
offered  a  plan  to  take  the  French,  and  to  defeat  his  original 
project  with  which  he  had  furnished  the  French  court. 

"  The  trial  lasted  for  thirteen  hours,  when  the  jury,  after  a 
short  deliberation,  pronounced  the  prisoner  guilty,  when  sen- 
tence was  immediately  passed  upon  him;  the  prisoner  received 
the  awful  doom  (he  was  condemned  to  be  hanged,  drawn,  and 
quartered),  with  great  composure,  but  inveighed  against  Mr. 

Liitterloh  in  warm  terms His  behaviour  throughout  the 

whole  of  this  trying  scene  exhibited  a  combination  of  manliness, 
steadiness,  and  presence  of  mind.  He  appeared  at  the  same 
time  polite,  condescending,  and  unaffected,  and,  we  presume, 
could  never  have  stood  so  firm  and  collected  at  so  awful  a  mo- 
ment, if,  when  he  felt  himself  fully  convicted  as  a  traitor  to  the 
State  which  gave  him  protection,  he  had  not,  however  mis- 
takenly, felt  a  conscious  innocence  within  his  own  breast  that  he 
had  devoted  his  life  to  the  service  of  his  country. 


184  NOTES  ON  DENIS  DUVAL 

"  M.  de  la  Motte  was  about  five  feet  ten  inches  in  height,  fifty 
years  of  age,  and  of  a  comely  countenance ;  his  deportment  was 
exceedingly  genteel,  and  his  eye  was  expressive  of  strong  pene- 
tration. He  wore  a  white  cloth  coat,  and  a  linen  waistcoat 
worked  in  tambour." — Annual  Register,  vol.  xxiv.  p.  184. 

It  is  not  improbable  that  from  this  narrative  of  a  trial 
for  high  treason  in  1781  the  whole  story  radiated.  These 
are  the  very  men  whom  we  have  seen  in  Thackeray's 
pages;  and  it  is  a  fine  test  of  his  insight  and  power  to 
compare  them  as  they  lie  embalmed  in  the  Annual  Reg- 
ister, and  as  they  breathe  again  in  "  Denis  Duval."  The 
part  they  were  to  have  played  in  the  story  is  already  in- 
telligible, all  but  the  way  in  which  they  were  to  have  con- 
fused the  lives  of  Denis  and  his  love.  "  'At  least,  Duval,' 
De  la  ]\Iotte  said  to  me  when  I  shook  hands  with  him  and 
with  all  my  heart  forgave  him,  '  mad  and  reckless  as  I 
have  been  and  fatal  to  all  whom  I  loved,  I  have  never 
allowed  the  child  to  want,  and  have  supported  her  in  com- 
fort when  I  myself  was  almost  without  a  meal.'  "  What 
was  the  injury  which  Denis  forgave  with  all  his  heart? 
Fatal  to  all  whom  he  loved,  there  are  evidences  that  De 
la  Motte  was  to  have  urged  Liitterloh's  pretensions  to 
Agnes:  whose  story  at  this  period  we  find  inscribed  in 
the  note-book  in  one  word — "  Henriette  Iphigenia." 
For  Agnes  was  christened  Henriette  originally,  and 
Denis  was  called  Blaise.^ 

'  Among  the  notes  there  is  a  little  chronological  table  of  events  as  they 
occur—  "Blaise,    born    1763. 

Henriette  de  Barr  was  born  in  1766-7. 

Her  father  went  to  Corsica,  '68. 

Mother   fled,   '68. 

Father  killed  at   B.,  '69. 

Mother  died,  '70. 

Blaise  turned  out,  '70. 

Henriette  l(j)tyEvia,  '81. 

La  Motte's  catastrophe,  '82. 

Rodney's  action,  ^S2.'^ 


NOTES  ON  DENIS  DUVAL  185 

As  for  M.  Liitterloh,  "  that  consummate  scoundrel, 
and  doubly  odious  from  speaking  English  with  a  Ger- 
man accent " — having  hanged  De  la  Motte,  while  con- 
fessing that  he  had  made  a  solemn  engagement  with  him 
never  to  betray  each  other,  and  then  immediately  laying  a 
wager  that  De  la  Motte  would  be  hanged,  having  broken 
open  a  secretaire,  and  distinguished  himself  in  various 
other  ways — he  seems  to  have  gone  to  Winchelsea,  where 
it  was  easy  for  him  to  threaten  or  cajole  the  Westons 
into  trying  to  force  Agnes  into  his  arms.  She  was  living 
with  these  people,  and  we  know  how  they  discounte- 
nanced her  faithful  affection  for  Denis.  Overwrought 
by  the  importunities  of  Liitterloh  and  the  Westons,  she 
escaped  to  Dr.  Barnard  for  protection;  and  soon  unex- 
pected help  arrived.  The  De  Viomesnils,  her  mother's 
relations,  became  suddenly  convinced  of  the  innocence 
of  the  Countess.  Perhaps  (and  when  we  say  perhaps, 
we  repeat  such  hints  of  his  plans  as  Mr.  Thackeray  ut- 
tered in  conversation  at  his  fireside)  they  knew  of  cer- 
tain heritages  to  which  Agnes  would  be  entitled  M^ere  her 
mother  absolved:  at  any  rate,  they  had  reasons  of  their 
own  for  claiming  her  at  this  opportune  moment — as  they 
did.  Agnes  takes  Dr.  Barnard's  advice  and  goes  off  to 
these  prosperous  relations,  who,  having  neglected  her  so 
long,  desire  her  so  much.  Perhaps  Denis  was  thinking 
of  the  sad  hour  when  he  came  home,  long  years  after- 
ward, to  find  his  sweetheart  gone,  when  he  wrote: — "  O 
Agnes,  Agnes !  how  the  years  roll  away !  What  strange 
events  have  befallen  us ;  what  passionate  griefs  have  we 
had  to  suffer :  what  a  merciful  heaven  has  protected  us, 
since  that  day  when  your  father  knelt  over  the  little  cot, 
in  which  his  child  lay  sleeping!  " 

At  the  time  she  goes  home  to  France,  Denis  is  far  away 


186  NOTES  ON  DENIS  DUVAL 

fighting  on  board  the  "Arethusa,"  under  his  old  captain, 
Sir  Richard  Pearson,  who  commanded  the  "  Serapis  "  in 
the  action  with  Paul  Jones.  Denis  was  wounded  early  in 
this  fight,  in  which  Pearson  had  to  strike  his  own  colours, 
almost  every  man  on  board  being  killed  or  hurt.  Of 
Pearson's  career,  which  Denis  must  have  followed  in 
after  days,  there  is  more  than  one  memorandum  in  Mr. 
Thackeray's  note-book:— 

"  '  Serapis,'  R.  Pearson.    Beatson's  Memoirs. 

"  Gentleman's  Magazine,  49,  p.  484.    Account  of  action  with 

Paul  Jones,  1779. 
"  Gentleman's   Magazine,    502,    p.    84.      Pearson   knighted, 

1780. 
"  Commanded  the  'Arethusa '  off  Ushant,  (  *  Field  of  Mars,' 
1781,  in  Kempenfeldt's  action.  (  art.  Ushant." 

And  then  follows  the  question,— 

"  Qy.     How  did  Pearson  get  away  from  Paul  Jones  ?  " 

But  before  that  is  answered  we  will  quote  the  "  story 
of  the  disaster  "  as  Sir  Richard  tells  it,  "  in  words  nobler 
than  any  I  could  supply: "  and,  indeed,  Mr.  Thackeray 
seems  to  have  thought  much  of  the  letter  to  the  Ad- 
miralty Office,  and  to  have  found  Pearson's  character 
in  it. 

After  some  preliminary  fighting— 

"  We  dropt  alongside  of  each  other,  head  and  stern,  when  the 
fluke  of  our  spare  anchor  hooking  his  quarter,  we  became  so  close, 
fore  and  aft,  that  the  muzzles  of  our  guns  touched  each  other's 
sides.  In  this  position  we  engaged  from  half-past  eight  till  half- 
past  ten ;  during  which  time,  from  the  great  quantity  and  vari- 
ety of  combustible  matter  which  they  threw  in  upon  our  decks, 


NOTES  ON  DENIS  DUVAL  187 

chains,  and,  in  short,  every  part  of  the  ship,  wc  were  on  fire 
no  less  than  ten  or  twelve  times  in  different  parts  of  the  ship, 
and  it  was  with  the  greatest  difficulty  and  exertion  imaginable 
at  times,  that  we  were  able  to  get  it  extinguished.  At  the  same 
time  the  largest  of  the  two  frigates  kept  sailing  round  us  the 
whole  action  and  raking  us  fore  and  aft,  by  which  means  she 
killed  or  wounded  almost  every  man  on  the  quarter  and  main 
decks. 

"  About  half-past  nine,  a  cartridge  of  poAvder  was  set  on  fire, 
which,  running  from  cartridge  to  cartridge  all  the  way  aft, 
blew  up  the  whole  of  the  people  and  officers  that  were  quartered 
abaft  the  mainmast At  ten  o'clock  they  called  for  quar- 
ter from  the  ship  alongside ;  hearing  this,  I  called  for  the  board- 
ers and  ordered  them  to  board  her,  which  they  did;  but  the 
moment  they  were  on  board  her,  they  discovered  a  superior  num- 
ber laying  under  cover  with  pikes  in  their  hands  ready  to 
receive  them;  our  people  retreated  instantly  into  our  own  ship, 
and  returned  to  their  guns  till  past  ten,  when  the  frigate  coming 
across  our  stern  and  pouring  her  broadside  into  us  again, 
without  our  being  able  to  bring  a  gun  to  bear  on  her,  I  found 
it  in  vain,  and,  in  short,  impracticable,  from  the  situation  we 
were  in,  to  stand  out  any  longer  with  the  least  prospect  of  suc- 
cess. I  therefore  struck.  Our  mainmast  at  the  same  time  went 
by  the  board.  .  .  . 

"  I  am  extremely  sorry  for  the  misfortune  that  has  hap- 
pened—that of  losing  his  Majesty's  ship  I  had  the  honour  to 
command ;  but  at  the  same  time,  I  flatter  myself  with  the  hopes 
that  their  lordships  will  be  convinced  that  she  has  not  been  given 
away,  but  that  on  the  contrary  every  exertion  has  been  used  to 
defend  her." 

The  "  Serapis  "  and  the  "  Countess  of  Scarborough," 
after  drifting  about  in  the  North  Sea,  were  brought  into 
the  Texel  by  Paul  Jones ;  when  Sir  Joseph  Yorke,  our 
ambassador  at  the   Hague,  memoriahzed   their  High 


188  NOTES  ON  DENIS  DUVAL 

Mightinesses  the  States-General  of  the  Low  Countries, 
requesting  that  these  prizes  might  be  given  up.  Their 
High  Mightinesses  refused  to  interfere. 

Of  course  the  fate  of  the  "  Serapis  "  was  Denis's  fate; 
and  the  question  also  is,  how  did  lie  get  away  from  Paul 
Jones?  A  note  written  immediately  after  the  query  sug- 
gests a  hair-breadth  escape  for  him  after  a  double  im- 
prisonment. 

"  Some  sailors  are  lately  arrived  from  Amsterdam  on  board 
the  '  Lffititia,'  Captain  March.  They  were  taken  out  of  the  hold 
of  a  Dutch  East  Indiaman  by  the  captain  of  the  '  Kingston  '  pri- 
vateer, who,  having  lost  some  of  his  people,  gained  some  infor- 
mation of  their  fate  from  a  music-girl,  and  had  spirit  enough 
to  board  the  ship  and  search  her.  The  poor  wretches  were  all 
chained  down  in  the  hold,  and  but  for  this  would  have  been 
carried  to  perpetual  slavery  ."—Gentleman's  Magazine,  50, 
p.  101. 

Do  we  see  how  truth  and  fiction  were  to  have  been 
married  here?  Suppose  that  Denis  Duval,  escaping 
from  one  imprisonment  in  Holland,  fell  into  the  snares 
of  Dutch  East  Indiamen,  or  was  kidnapped  with  the 
men  of  the  "  Kingston  "  privateer?  Denis  chained  down 
in  the  hold,  thinking  one  moment  of  Agnes  and  the 
garden  wall,  which  alone  was  too  much  to  separate  them, 
and  at  the  next  moment  of  how  he  was  now  to  be  car- 
ried to  perpetual  slavery,  beyond  hope.  And  then  the 
music-girl;  and  the  cheer  of  the  "Kingston's"  men 
as  they  burst  into  the  hold  and  set  the  prisoners  free.  It 
is  easy  to  imagine  what  those  chapters  would  have  been 

like. 

At  liberty,  Denis  was  still  kept  at  sea,  where  he  did 
not  rise  to  the  heroic  in  a  day,  but  progressed  through 


NOTES  ON  DENIS  DUVAL  189 

all  the  commonplace  duties  of  a  yomig  seaman's  life, 
which  we  find  noted  down  accordingly: — 

"  He  must  serve  two  years  on  board  before  he  can  be  rated 
midshipman.  Such  volunteers  are  mostly  put  under  the  care 
of  the  gunner,  who  caters  for  them ;  and  are  permitted  to  walk 
the  quarter-deck  and  wear  the  uniform  from  the  beginning. 
When  fifteen  and  rated  midshipmen,  they  form  a  mess  with  the 
mates.  When  examined  for  their  commissions  they  are  expected 
to  know  everything  relative  to  navigation  and  seamanship,  are 
strictly  examined  in  the  different  sailings,  working  tides,  days' 
works,  and  double-altitudes — and  are  expected  to  give  some  ac- 
count of  the  different  methods  of  finding  the  longitudes  by  a 
time-keeper  and  the  lunar  observations.  In  practical  seaman- 
ship they  must  show  how  to  conduct  a  ship  from  one  place  to 
another  under  every  disadvantage  of  wind,  tide,  &c.  After 
this,  the  candidate  obtains  a  certificate  from  the  captain,  and 
his  commission  when  he  can  get  it." 

Another  note  describes  a  personage  whose  acquain- 
tance we  have  missed; — 

"  A  seaman  of  the  old  school,  whose  hand  was  more  familiar 
with  the  tar-brush  than  with  Hadley's  quadrant,  who  had  peeped 
into  the  mysteries  of  navigation  as  laid  down  by  J.  Hamilton 
Moore,  and  who  acquired  an  idea  of  the  rattletraps  and  rigging 
of  a  ship  through  the  famous  illustrations  which  adorn  the 
pages  of  Darcy  Lever." 

Denis  was  a  seaman  in  stirring  times.  "  The  year  of 
which  we  treat,"  says  the  Annual  Register  for  1779, 
*'  presented  the  most  awful  appearance  of  public  affairs 
which  perhaps  this  country  had  beheld  for  many  ages ; " 
and  Duval  had  part  in  more  than  one  of  the  startling 
events  which  succeeded  each  other  so  rapidly  in  the  wars 


190  NOTES  ON  DENIS  DUVAL 

with  France  and  America  and  Spain.  He  was  destined 
to  come  into  contact  with  Major  Andre,  whose  fate  ex- 
cited extraordinary  sympathy  at  the  time:  Washington 
is  said  to  have  shed  tears  when  he  signed  his  death-war- 
rant. It  was  on  the  2nd  of  October,  1780,  that  this 
young  officer  was  executed.  A  year  later,  and  Denis  was 
to  witness  the  trial  and  execution  of  one  whom  he  knew 
better  and  was  more  deeply  interested  in,  De  la  Motte. 
The  courage  and  nobleness  with  which  he  met  his  fate 
moved  the  sympathy  of  Duval,  whom  he  had  injured, 
as  well  as  of  most  of  those  who  saw  him  die.  Denis  has 
written  concerning  him: — "  Except  my  kind  namesake, 
the  captain  and  admiral,  this  was  the  first  gentleman  I 
ever  met  in  intimacy,  a  gentleman  with  many  a  stain, — 
nay,  crime  to  reproach  him,  but  not  all  lost,  I  hope  and 
pray.  I  own  to  having  a  kindly  feeling  towards  that 
fatal  man." 

Liitterloh's  time  had  not  yet  come;  but  besides  that 
we  find  him  disposed  of  with  the  "  Royal  George  "  in 
the  first-quoted  letter,  an  entry  in  the  note-book  unites 
the  fate  of  the  bad  man  with  that  of  the  good  ship.^ 

Meanwhile,  the  memorandum  "  Rodney's  action, 
1782,"  indicates  that  Duval  was  to  take  part  in  our  vic- 
tory over  the  French  fleet  commanded  by  the  Count  de 
Grasse,  who  was  himself  captured  with  the  "  Ville  de 
Paris  "  and  four  other  ships.  "  De  Grasse  with  his  suite 
landed  on  Southsea  Common,  Portsmouth.  They  were 
conducted  in  carriages  to  the  '  George,'  where  a  most 
sumptuous  dinner  had  been  procured  for  the  Count  and 
his  suite,  by  Vice-Admiral  Sir  Peter  Parkes,  who  en- 

*  Contemporary  accounts  of  the  foundering  of  the  "  Royal  George "  rep- 
resent her  crowded  with  people  from  the  shore.  We  have  seen  how  Liitter- 
loh  was  among  these,  having  come  on  board  to  receive  the  price  of  his 
treason. 


NOTES  ON  DENIS  DUVAL  191 

tertained  him  and  his  officers  at  his  own  expense."  Here 
also  was  something  for  Denis  to  see;  and  in  this  same 
autumn  came  on  the  trial  of  the  two  Westons,  when 
Denis  was  to  be  the  means — unconsciously — of  bringing 
his  old  enemy,  Joseph  Weston,  to  punishment.  There 
are  two  notes  to  this  effect. 

"  1782-3.  Jo.  Weston,  always  savage  against  Blaise,  fires 
on  him  in  Cheapside. 

"  The  Black  Act  is  9  George  II.  c.  22.  The  preamble  says: 
— '  Whereas  several  ill-designing  and  disorderly  persons  have 
associated  themselves  under  the  name  of  Blacks,  and  entered  into 
confederacies  to  support  and  assist  one  another  in  stealing  and 
destroying  deer,  robbing  warrens  and  fish-ponds,'  .  .  .  .  It 
then  goes  on  to  enact  that  '  if  any  person  or  persons  shall  wil- 
fully or  maliciously  shoot  at  any  person  in  any  dwelling-house 
or  other  place,  he  shall  suffer  death  as  in  cases  of  felony  with- 
out benefit  of  the  clergy.'  " 
< 

A  Joseph  Weston  was  actually  found  guilty  under 
the  Black  Act,  of  firing  at  and  wounding  a  man  on 
Snow  Hill,  and  was  hanged  with  his  brother.  Mr. 
Thackeray's  note-book  refers  him  to  "  The  Westons  in 
'  Session  Papers,'  1782,  pp.  463,  470,  473,"  to  the  Gen- 
tleman s  Magazine,  1782,  to  *'  Genuine  Memoirs  of 
George  and  Joseph  Weston,  1782,"  and  Notes  and 
Queries,  Series  I.  vol.  x.^ 

The  next  notes  (in  order  of  time)  concern  a  certain 
very  disinterested  action  of  Duval's: — 

*  These  notes  also  appear  in  the  same  connection : — 

"  Horsestealers.  One  Saunders  was  committed  to  Oxford  gaol  for  horse- 
stealing, who  appears  to  have  belonged  to  a  gang,  part  of  whom  stole  horses 
in  the  north  counties,  and  the  other  part  in  the  south,  and  about  the  midland 
counties  they  used  to  meet  and  exchange.— Cen/Zeman'*  Magazine,  39,  165. 

"1783.  Capital  Convictions.— At  the  Spring  Assizes,  1783,  119  prisoners 
received  sentence  of  Death." 


192  NOTES  ON  DENIS  DUVAL 

''  Deal  Riots,  1783. 
"Deal. — Here  has  been  a  great  scene  of  confusion,  by  a 
party  of  Colonel  Douglas's  Light  Dragoons,  sixty  in  number, 
who  entered  the  town  in  the  dead  of  the  night  in  aid  to  the 
excise  officers,  in  order  to  break  open  the  stores  and  make  seiz- 
ures: but  the  smugglers,  who  are  never  unprepared,  having 
taken  the  alarm,  mustered  together,  and  a  most  desperate  battle 
ensued." 

Now  old  Duval,  the  perruquier,  as  we  know,  belonged 
to  the  great  Mackerel  party,  or  smuggling  conspiracy, 
which  extended  all  along  the  coast;  and  frequent  allu- 
sion has  been  made  to  his  secret  stores,  and  to  the  profits 
of  his  so-called  fishing  expeditions.  Remembering  what 
has  been  written  of  this  gentleman,  we  can  easily  imagine 
the  falsehoods,  tears,  lying  asseverations  of  poverty  and 
innocence  which  old  Duval  must  have  uttered  on  the  ter- 
rible night  when  the  excise  officers  visited  him.  But  his 
exclamations  were  to  no  purpose,  for  it  is  a  fact  that 
when  Denis  saw  what  was  going  on,  he  burst  out  with  the 
truth,  and  though  he  knew  it  was  his  own  inheritance  he 
was  giving  up,  he  led  the  officers  right  away  to  the  hoards 
they  were  seeking. 

His  conduct  on  this  occasion  Denis  has  already  re- 
ferred to  where  he  says: — "There  were  matters  con- 
nected with  this  story  regarding  which  I  could  not  speak. 
.  .  .  Now  they  are  secrets  no  more.  That  old  society  of 
smugglers  is  dissolved  long  ago :  nay,  I  shall  have  to  tell 
presently  how  I  helped  mj^self  to  break  it  up."  And 
therewith  all  old  Duval's  earnings,  all  Denis's  fortune 
that  was  to  be,  vanished ;  but  of  course  Denis  prospered 
in  his  profession,  and  had  no  need  of  unlawful  gains.  ^ 

But  very  sad  times  intervened  between  Denis  and 

'  Notices  of  Sussex  smuggling  (says  the  note-book)  are  to  be  found  in 
vol.  X.  of  "  Sussex  Archaeological  Collections,"  69,  94.  Reference  is  also 
made  to  the  Gentleman's  Magazine,  vol,  viii.  pp.  29:2,  172, 


NOTES  ON  DENIS  DUVAL  193 

prosperity.  He  was  to  be  taken  prisoner  by  the  French, 
and  to  fret  many  long  years  away  in  one  of  their  ar- 
senals. At  last  the  Revolution  broke  out,  and  he  may 
have  been  given  up,  or — thanks  to  his  foreign  tongue 
and  extraction — found  means  to  escape.  Perhaps  he 
went  in  search  of  Agnes,  whom  we  know  he  never  for- 
got, and  whose  great  relations  were  now  in  trouble;  for 
the  Revolution  which  freed  him  was  terrible  to  "  aristo- 
crats." 

This  is  nearly  all  the  record  we  have  of  this  part  of 
Denis's  life,  and  of  the  life  which  Agnes  led  while  she 
was  away  from  him.  But  perhaps  it  was  at  this  time 
that  Duval  saw  Marie  Antoinette ;  ^  perhaps  he  found 
Agnes,  and  helped  to  get  her  away:  or  had  Agnes  al- 
ready escaped  to  England,  and  was  it  in  the  old  familiar 
haunts — Farmer  Perreau's  Coluinharium,  where  the 
pigeons  were  that  Agnes  loved;  the  Rectory  garden 
basking  in  the  autumn  evening;  the  old  wall  and  the 
pear-tree  behind  it;  the  plain  from  whence  they  could 
see  the  French  lights  across  the  Channel ;  the  little  twin- 
kling window  in  a  gable  of  the  Priory-house,  where  the 
light  used  to  be  popped  out  at  nine  o'clock — that  Denis 
and  Agnes  first  met  after  their  long  separation? 

However  that  may  have  been,  we  come  presently  upon 
a  note  of  "  a  tailor  contracts  to  supply  three  superfine 
suits  for  llZ.  lis.  (Gazetteer  and  Daily  Advertiser)  ;" 
and  also  of  a  villa  at  Beckenham,  with  "  four  parlours, 

'The  following  memoranda  appear  in  the  note-book:  — 

"Marie  Antoinette  was  born  on  the  2nd  November,  1755,  and  her  saint's 
day  is  the  Fetk  des  Morts. 

"  In  the  Corsican  expedition  the  Legion  de  Lorraine  was  under  the  Baron 
de  Viomesnil.  He  emigrated  at  the  commencement  of  the  Revolution,  took 
an  active  part  in  the  army  of  Cond^,  and  in  the  emigration,  returned  with 
Louis  XVIII.,  followed  him  to  Gand,  and  was  made  marshal  and  peer  of 
France   after   '15. 

"  Another  Vi.  went  with  Rochambeau  to  America  in  1780." 


194  NOTES  ON  DENIS  DUVAL 

eight  bed-rooms,  stables,  two  acres  of  garden,  and  four- 
teen acres  of  meadow,  let  for  70l.  a  year,"  which  may 
have  been  the  house  the  young  people  first  lived  in  after 
they  were  married.  Later,  they  moved  to  Fareport, 
where,  as  we  read,  the  admiral  is  weighed  along  with  his 
own  pig.  But  he  cannot  have  given  up  the  service  for 
many  years  after  his  marriage,  for  he  writes: — "  T'other 
day  when  we  took  over  the  King  of  France  to  Calais 
(H.R.H.  the  Duke  of  Clarence  being  in  command),  I 
must  needs  have  a  postchaise  from  Dover  to  look  at  that 
old  window  in  the  Priory-house  at  Winchelsea.  I  w^nt 
through  the  old  wars,  despairs,  tragedies.  I  sighed  as 
vehemently  after  forty  years  as  though  the  infandi  do- 
lores  were  fresh  upon  me,  as  though  I  were  the  school- 
boy trudging  back  to  his  task,  and  taking  a  last  look  at 
his  dearest  joy." 

"And  who,  pray,  was  Agnes?"  he  writes  elsewhere. 
"  To-day  her  name  is  Agnes  Duval,  and  she  sits  at  her 
work-table  hard  by.  The  lot  of  my  life  has  been  changed 
by  knowing  her— to  win  such  a  prize  in  life's  lottery  has 
been  given  but  to  very  few.  What  I  have  done — of  any 
worth— has  been  done  by  trying  to  deserve  her." 

.  .  .  ^^ Monsieur  mon  filsf —  (this  is  to  his  boy)  —"if 
ever  you  marry,  and  have  a  son,  I  hope  the  little  chap 
will  have  an  honest  man  for  a  grandfather,  and  that  you 
will  be  able  to  say,  '  I  loved  him,'  when  the  daisies  cover 
me."  Once  more  of  Agnes  he  writes: — "When  my  ink 
is  run  out,  and  my  little  tale  is  written,  and  yonder 
church  that  is  ringing  to  seven-o'clock  prayers  shall  toll 
for  a  certain  D.  D.,  you  will  please,  good  neighbours,  to 
remember  that  I  never  loved  any  but  yonder  lady,  and 
keep  a  place  by  Darby  for  Joan  when  her  turn  shall 
arrive." 


LOVEL  THE  WIDOWER 


LOVEL  THE  WIDOWER 


CHAPTER  I 


THE   BACHELOR   OF   BEAK   STREET 

HO  shall  be  the  hero  of  this 
tale?  Not  I  who  write 
it.  I  am  but  the  Chorus 
of  the  Play.  I  make 
remarks  on  the  conduct 
of  the  characters:  I 
narrate  their  simple 
story.  There  is  love  and 
marriage  in  it:  there  is 
grief  and  disappoint- 
ment: the  scene  is  in  the 
parlour,  and  the  region 
beneath  the  parlour. 
No:  it  may  be  the  par- 
lour and  kitchen,  in  this 
instance,  are  on  the  same 
level.  There  is  no  high  life,  unless,  to  be  sure,  you 
call  a  baronet's  widow  a  lady  in  high  life;  and  some 
ladies  may  be,  while  some  certainly  are  not.  I  don't 
think  there's  a  villain  in  the  whole  performance.  There 
is  an  abominable  selfish  old  woman,  certainly;  an  old 
highway  robber;  an  old  sponger  on  other  people's  kind- 
ness; an  old  haunter  of  Bath  and  Cheltenham  board- 

19T 


198  LOVEL  THE  WIDOWER 

ing-houses  (about  which  how  can  I  know  anything, 
never  having  been  in  a  boarding-house  at  Bath  or  Chel- 
tenham in  my  life?)  ;  an  old  swindler  of  tradesmen, 
tyrant  of  servants,  bully  of  the  poor — who,  to  be  sure, 
might  do  duty  for  a  villain,  but  she  considers  herself  as 
virtuous  a  woman  as  ever  was  born.  The  heroine  is  not 
faultless  (ah!  that  will  be  a  great  relief  to  some  folks, 
for  many  writers'  good  women  are,  you  know,  so  very 
insipid) .  The  principal  personage  you  may  very  likely 
think  to  be  no  better  than  a  muff.  But  is  many  a 
respectable  man  of  our  acquaintance  much  better?  and 
do  muffs  know  that  they  are  what  they  are,  or,  knowing 
it,  are  they  unhappy?  Do  girls  decline  to  marry  one 
if  he  is  rich?  Do  we  refuse  to  dine  with  one?  I  listened 
to  one  at  Church  last  Sunday,  with  all  the  women  crying 
and  sobbing;  and,  oh,  dear  me!  how  finely  he  preached! 
Don't  we  give  him  great  credit  for  wisdom  and  elo- 
quence in  the  House  of  Commons?  Don't  we  give  him 
important  commands  in  the  army?  Can  you,  or  can  you 
not,  point  out  one  who  has  been  made  a  peer?  Doesn't 
your  wife  call  one  in  the  moment  any  of  the  children  are 
ill?  Don't  we  read  his  dear  poems,  or  even  novels? 
Yes;  perhaps  even  this  one  is  read  and  written  by — 
Well  ?  Quid  rides  ?  Do  you  mean  that  I  am  painting 
a  portrait  which  hangs  before  me  every  morning  in  the 
looking-glass  when  I  am  shaving?  Apres?  Do  you 
suppose  that  I  suppose  that  I  have  not  infirmities  like 
my  neighbours?  Am  I  weak?  It  is  notorious  to  all  my 
friends  there  is  a  certain  dish  I  can't  resist :  no,  not  if  I 
have  already  eaten  twice  too  much  at  dinner.  So,  dear 
sir,  or  madam,  have  you  your  weakness— ?/owr  irre- 
sistible dish  of  temptation?  (or  if  you  don't  know  it, 
your  friends  do) .    No,  dear  friend,  the  chances  are  that 


THE  BACHELOR  OF  BEAK   STREET  199 

you  and  I  are  not  people  of  the  highest  intellect,  of  the 
largest  fortune,  of  the  most  ancient  family,  of  the  most 
consummate  virtue,  of  the  most  faultless  beauty  in  face 
and  figure.  We  are  no  heroes  nor  angels;  neither  are 
we  fiends  from  abodes  unmentionable,  black  assassins, 
treacherous  lagos,  familiar  with  stabbing  and  poison — 
murder  our  amusement,  daggers  our  playthings,  arsenic 
our  daily  bread,  lies  our  conversation,  and  forgery  our 
common  handwriting.  No,  we  are  not  monsters  of 
crime,  or  angels  walking  the  earth— at  least  I  know  one 
of  us  who  isn't,  as  can  be  shown  any  day  at  home  if  the 
knife  won't  cut  or  the  mutton  comes  up  raw.  But  we 
are  not  altogether  brutal  and  unkind,  and  a  few  folks 
like  us.  Our  poetry  is  not  as  good  as  Alfred  Tenny- 
son's, but  we  can  turn  a  couplet  for  Miss  Fanny's  al- 
bum: our  jokes  are  not  always  first-rate,  but  Mary  and 
her  mother  smile  very  kindly  when  papa  tells  his  story 
or  makes  his  pun.  We  have  many  weaknesses,  but  we 
are  not  ruffians  of  crime.  No  more  was  my  friend 
Lovel.  On  the  contrary,  he  was  as  harmless  and  kindly 
a  fellow  as  ever  lived  when  I  first  knew  him.  At  pres- 
ent, with  his  changed  position,  he  is,  perhaps,  rather  fine 
(and  certainly  I  am  not  asked  to  his  best  dinner-parties 
as  I  used  to  be,  where  you  hardly  see  a  commoner — 
but  stay !  I  am  advancing  matters ) .  At  the  time  when 
this  story  begins,  I  say,  Lovel  had  his  faults — which  of 
us  has  not?  He  had  buried  his  wife,  having  notoriously 
been  henpecked  by  her.  How  many  men  and  brethren 
are  like  him!  He  had  a  good  fortune— I  wish  I  had  as 
much — though  I  dare  say  many  people  are  ten  times  as 
rich.  He  was  a  good-looking  fellow  enough;  though 
that  depends,  ladies,  upon  whether  you  like  a  fair  man 
or  a  dark  one.    He  had  a  country  house,  but  it  was  only 


200  LOVEL  THE  WIDOWER 

at  Putney.  In  fact,  he  was  in  business  in  the  city,  and 
being  a  hospitable  man,  and  having  three  or  four  spare 
bedrooms,  some  of  his  friends  were  always  welcome  at 
Shrublands,  especially  after  Mrs.  Lovel's  death,  who 
liked  me  pretty  well  at  the  period  of  her  early  mar- 
riage with  my  friend,  but  got  to  dislike  me  at  last  and  to 
show  me  the  cold  shoulder.  That  is  a  joint  I  never  could 
like  (though  I  have  known  fellows  who  persist  in  dining 
off  it  year  after  year,  who  cling  hold  of  it,  and  refuse 
to  be  separated  from  it) .  I  say,  when  Lovel's  wife  began 
to  show  me  that  she  was  tired  of  my  company,  I  made 
myself  scarce:  used  to  pretend  to  be  engaged  when 
Fred  faintly  asked  me  to  Shrublands ;  to  accept  his  meek 
apologies,  proposals  to  dine  en  gar^on  at  Greenwich,  the 
club,  and  so  forth;  and  never  visit  upon  him  my  wrath 
at  his  wife's  indifference — for,  after  all,  he  had  been  my 
friend  at  many  a  pinch:  he  never  stinted  at  "  Harts's  " 
or  "  Lovegrove's,"  and  always  made  a  point  of  having 
the  wine  I  liked,  never  mind  what  the  price  was.  As 
for  his  wife,  there  was,  assuredly,  no  love  lost  between 
us — I  thought  her  a  lean,  scraggy,  lackadaisical,  egotis- 
tical, consequential,  insipid  creature:  and  as  for  his 
mother-in-law,  who  sta)^ed  at  Fred's  as  long  and  as 
often  as  her  daughter  would  endure  her,  has  any  one 
who  ever  knew  that  notorious  old  Lady  Baker  at  Bath, 
at  Cheltenham,  at  Brighton, — wherever  trumps  and 
frumps  were  found  together;  wherever  scandal  was 
cackled;  wherever  flj^-blown  reputations  were  assem- 
bled, and  dowagers  with  damaged  titles  trod  over  each 
other  for  the  pas; — who,  I  say,  ever  had  a  good  word 
for  that  old  woman?  What  party  was  not  bored  where 
she  appeared?  What  tradesman  was  not  done  with 
whom  she  dealt?  I  wish  with  all  my  heart  I  was  about 
to  narrate  a  story  with  a  good  mother-in-law  for  a  char- 


THE   BACHELOR  OF  BEAK   STREET  201 

acter;  but  then  you  know,  my  dear  madam,  all  good 
women  in  novels  are  insipid.  This  woman  certainly  was 
not.  She  was  not  only  not  insipid,  but  exceedingly  bad- 
tasted.  She  had  a  foul,  loud  tongue,  a  stupid  head,  a 
bad  temper,  an  immense  pride  and  arrogance,  an  ex- 
travagant son,  and  very  little  monej^  Can  I  say  much 
more  of  a  woman  than  this?  Alia!  my  good  Lady 
Baker!  I  was  a  inauvais  sujet,  was  I? — I  was  leading 
Fred  into  smoking,  drinking,  and  low  bachelor  habits, 
was  I?  I,  his  old  friend,  who  have  borrowed  money 
from  him  any  time  these  twenty  years,  was  not  fit  com- 
pany for  you  and  your  precious  daughter?  Indeed! 
I  paid  the  money  I  borrowed  from  him  like  a  man; 
but  did  you  ever  pay  him,  I  should  like  to  know?  When 
Mrs.  Lovel  M^as  in  the  first  column  of  The  Times,  then 
Fred  and  I  used  to  go  off  to  Greenwich  and  Blackwall, 
as  I  said ;  then  his  kind  old  heart  was  allowed  to  feel  for 
his  friend;  then  we  could  have  the  other  bottle  of  claret 
without  the  appearance  of  Bedford  and  the  coffee, 
which  in  JNIrs.  L.'s  time  used  to  be  sent  in  to  us  before 
we  could  ring  for  a  second  bottle,  although  she  and 
Lady  Baker  had  had  three  glasses  each  out  of  the  first. 
Three  full  glasses  each,  I  give  you  my  word!  No, 
madam,  it  was  your  turn  to  bully  me  once — now  it  is 
mine  and  I  use  it.  No,  you  old  catamaran,  though  you 
pretend  you  never  read  novels,  some  of  your  confounded 
good-natured  friends  will  let  you  know  of  tins  one. 
Here  you  are,  do  you  hear?  Here  you  shall  be  shown 
up.  And  so  I  intend  to  show  up  other  women  and  other 
men  who  have  offended  me.  Is  one  to  be  subject  to 
slights  and  scorn,  and  not  have  revenge?  Kindnesses 
are  easily  forgotten;  but  injuries! — what  worthy  man 
does  not  keep  those  in  mind? 

Before  entering  upon  the  present  narrative,  may  I 


202  LOVEL  THE  WIDOWER 

take  leave  to  inform  a  candid  public  that,  though  it  is 
all  true,  there  is  not  a  word  of  truth  in  it;  that  though 
Lovel  is  alive  and  prosperous,  and  you  very  likely  have 
met  him,  yet  I  defy  you  to  point  him  out ;  that  his  wife 
(for  he  is  Lovel  the  Widower  no  more)  is  not  the  lady 
you  imagine  her  to  be,  when  you  say  (as  you  will  per- 
sist in  doing),  "  Oh,  that  character  is  intended  for  Mrs. 
Thingamy,  or  was  notoriously  drawn  from  Lady  So- 
and-So."  No.  You  are  utterly  mistaken.  Why,  even 
the  advertising-puffers  have  almost  given  up  that  stale 
stratagem  of  announcing  "Revelations  from  High 
Life.— The  beau  monde  will  be  startled  at  recognizing 
the  portraits  of  some  of  its  brilliant  leaders  in  Miss 
Wiggins's  forthcoming  roman  de  societe."  Or,  "We 
suspect  a  certain  ducal  house  will  be  puzzled  to  guess 
how  the  pitiless  author  of  'Mayfair  Mysteries'  has 
become  acquainted  with  (and  exposed  with  a  fearless 
hand)  certain  family  secrets  which  were  thought  only 
to  be  known  to  a  few  of  the  very  highest  members  of 
the  aristocracy."  No,  I  saj^;  these  silly  baits  to  catch  an 
unsuspecting  public  shall  not  be  our  arts.  If  you  choose 
to  occupy  yourself  with  trying  to  ascertain  if  a  certain 
cap  fits  one  amongst  ever  so  many  thousand  heads,  you 
may  possibly  pop  it  on  the  right  one :  but  the  cap-maker 
will  perish  before  he  tells  you ;  unless,  of  course,  he  has 
some  private  pique  to  avenge,  or  malice  to  wreak,  upon 
some  individual  who  can't  by  any  possibility  hit  again; 
—then,  indeed,  he  will  come  boldly  forward  and  seize 
upon  his  victim—  (a  bishop,  say,  or  a  woman  without 
coarse,  quarrelsome  male  relatives,  will  be  best)  —and 
clap  on  him,  or  her,  such  a  cap,  with  such  ears,  that  all 
the  world  shall  laugh  at  the  poor  wretch,  shuddering, 
and  blushing  beet-root  red,  and  whimpering  deserved 


THE  BACHELOR  OF  BEAK  STREET  203 

tears  of  rage  and  vexation  at  being  made  the  common 
butt  of  society.  Besides,  I  dine  at  Lovel's  still ;  his  com- 
pany and  cuisine  are  amongst  the  best  in  London.  If 
they  suspected  I  was  taking  them  off,  he  and  his  wife 
would  leave  off  inviting  me.  Would  any  man  of  a  gen- 
erous disposition  lose  such  a  valued  friend  for  a  joke, 
or  be  so  foolish  as  to  show  him  up  in  a  story?  All  per- 
sons with  a  decent  knowledge  of  the  world  will  at  once 
banish  the  thought,  as  not  merely  base,  but  absurd.  I 
am  invited  to  his  house  one  day  next  week :  vous  concevez 
I  can't  mention  the  very  day,  for  then  he  would  find 
me  out — and  of  course  there  would  be  no  more  cards  for 
his  old  friend.  He  would  not  like  appearing,  as  it  must 
be  owned  he  does  in  this  memoir,  as  a  man  of  not  very 
strong  mind.  He  believes  himself  to  be  a  most  deter- 
mined, resolute  person.  He  is  quick  in  speech,  wears 
a  fierce  beard,  speaks  with  asperity  to  his  servants  (who 
liken  him  to  a— to  that  before-named  sable  or  ermine 
contrivance,  in  which  ladies  insert  their  hands  in  winter) , 
and  takes  his  wife  to  task  so  smartly,  that  I  believe  she 
believes  he  believes  he  is  the  master  of  the  house.  "  Eliz- 
abeth, my  love,  he  must  mean  A,  or  B,  or  D,"  I 
fancy  I  hear  Lovel  say;  and  she  says,  "Yes;  oh!  it  is 
certainly  D— his  very  image! "  "  D  to  a  T,"  says  Lovel 
(who  is  a  neat  wit).  SJie  may  know  that  I  mean 
to  depict  her  husband  in  the  above  unpretending  lines: 
but  she  will  never  let  me  know  of  her  knowledge  except 
by  a  little  extra  courtesy;  except  (may  I  make  this 
pleasing  exception?)  by  a  few  more  invitations;  except 
by  a  look  of  those  unfathomable  eyes  (gracious  good- 
ness! to  think  she  wore  spectacles  ever  so  long,  and  put 
a  lid  over  them  as  it  were!) ,  into  which,  when  you  gaze 
sometimes,  you  may  gaze  so  deep,  and  deep,  and  deep, 


204  LOVEL  THE  WIDOWER 

that  I  defy  you  to  plumb  half-way  down  into  their 
mystery. 

When  I  was  a  young  man,  I  had  lodgings  in  Beak 
Street,  Regent  Street  (I  no  more  have  lived  in  Beak 
Street  than  in  Belgrave  Square:  but  I  choose  to  say  so, 
and  no  gentleman  will  be  so  rude  as  to  contradict  an- 
other) —I  had  lodgings,  I  say,  in  Beak  Street,  Regent 
Street.  Mrs.  Prior  was  the  landlady's  name.  She  had 
seen  better  days — landladies  frequently  have.  Her 
husband— he  could  not  be  called  the  landlord,  for  Mrs. 
P.  was  manager  of  the  place — had  been,  in  happier 
times,  captain  or  lieutenant  in  the  militia;  then  of  Diss, 
in  Norfolk,  of  no  profession;  then  of  Norwich  Castle, 
a  prisoner  for  debt;  then  of  Southampton  Buildings, 
London,  law-writer;  then  of  the  Bom-Retiro  Ca^a- 
dores,  in  the  service  of  H.M.  the  Queen  of  Portugal, 
lieutenant  and  paymaster;  then  of  Melina  Place,  St. 
George's  Fields,  &c. — I  forbear  to  give  the  particulars 
of  an  existence  which  a  legal  biographer  has  traced 
step  by  step,  and  which  has  more  than  once  been  the 
subject  of  judicial  investigation  by  certain  commission- 
ers in  Lincoln's-Inn  Fields.  Well,  Prior,  at  this  time, 
swimming  out  of  a  hundred  shipwrecks,  had  clambered 
on  to  a  lighter,  as  it  were,  and  was  clerk  to  a  coal-mer- 
chant, by  the  riverside.  "  You  conceive,  sir,"  he  would 
say,  "my  employment  is  only  temporary — the  fortune 
of  war,  the  fortune  of  war!"  He  smattered  words  in 
not  a  few  foreign  languages.  His  person  was  profusely 
scented  with  tobacco.  Bearded  individuals,  padding  the 
muddy  hoof  in  the  neighbouring  Regent  Street,  would 
call  sometimes  of  an  evening,  and  ask  for  "  the  captain." 
He  was  known  at  many  neighbouring  billiard-tables, 
and,  I  imagine,  not  respected.    You  will  not  see  enough 


THE   BACHELOR  OF  BEAK   STREET  205 

of  Captain  Prior  to  be  very  weary  of  him  and  his  coarse 
swagger,  to  be  disgusted  by  his  repeated  requests  for 
small  money-loans,  or  to  deplore  his  loss,  which  you  will 
please  to  suppose  has  happened  before  the  curtain  of 
our  present  drama  draws  up.  I  think  two  people  in 
the  world  were  sorry  for  him:  his  wife,  who  still  loved 
the  memory  of  the  handsome  young  man  who  had 
wooed  and  won  her;  his  daughter  Elizabeth,  whom  for 
the  last  few  months  of  his  life,  and  up  to  his  fatal  illness, 
he  every  evening  conducted  to  what  he  called  her 
"  academy."  You  are  right.  Elizabeth  is  the  principal 
character  in  this  story.  When  I  knew  her,  a  thin, 
freckled  girl  of  fifteen,  with  a  lean  frock,  and  hair  of  a 
reddish  hue,  she  used  to  borrow  ni}^  books,  and  play  on 
the  First  Floor's  piano,  when  he  was  from  home — 
Slumley  his  name  was.  He  was  editor  of  the  Swell,  a 
newspaper  then  published ;  author  of  a  great  number  of 
popular  songs,  a  friend  of  several  music-selling  houses; 
and  it  was  by  ]Mr.  Slumley's  interest  that  Elizabeth  was 
received  as  a  pupil  at  what  the  family  called  "  the  acad- 
emy." 

Captain  Prior  then  used  to  conduct  his  girl  to  the 
Academy,  but  she  often  had  to  conduct  him  home  again. 
Having  to  wait  about  the  premises  for  two,  or  three,  or 
five  hours  sometimes,  whilst  Elizabeth  was  doing  her  les- 
sons, he  would  naturally  desire  to  shelter  himself  from 
the  cold  at  some  neighbouring  house  of  entertainment. 
Every  Friday,  a  prize  of  a  golden  medal,  nay,  I  believe 
sometimes  of  twenty-five  silver  medals,  was  awarded 
to  Miss  Bellenden  and  other  young  ladies  for  their 
good  conduct  and  assiduity  at  this  academy.  Miss  Bel- 
lenden gave  her  gold  medal  to  her  mother,  only  keep- 
ing   five    shillings    for   herself,    with    which   the    poor 


206  LOVEL  THE  WIDOWER 

child  bought  gloves,  shoes,  and  her  humble  articles  of 
millinery. 

Once  or  twice  the  Captain  succeeded  in  intercepting 
that  piece  of  gold,  and  I  dare  say  treated  some  of  his 
whiskered  friends,  the  clinking  trampers  of  the  Quad- 
rant pavement.  He  was  a  free-handed  fellow  when  he 
had  anybody's  money  in  his  pocket.  It  was  owing  to 
differences  regarding  the  settlement  of  accounts  that  he 
quarrelled  with  the  coal-merchant,  his  very  last  em- 
ployer. Bessy,  after  yielding  once  or  twice  to  his  im- 
portunity, and  trying  to  believe  his  solemn  promises  of 
repayment,  had  strength  of  mind  to  refuse  her  father 
the  pound  which  he  would  have  taken.  Her  five  shillings 
— her  poor  little  slender  pocket-money,  the  representa- 
tive of  her  charities  and  kindnesses  to  the  little  brothers 
and  sisters,  of  her  little  toilette  ornaments,  nay  neces- 
sities ;  of  those  well-mended  gloves,  of  those  oft-darned 
stockings,  of  those  poor  boots,  which  had  to  walk  many 
a  weary  mile  after  midnight ;  of  those  little  knicknacks, 
in  the  shape  of  brooch  or  bracelet,  with  which  the  poor 
child  adorned  her  homely  robe  or  sleeve — her  poor  five 
shillings,  out  of  which  Mary  sometimes  found  a  pair  of 
shoes,  or  Tommy  a  flannel- jacket,  and  little  Bill  a  coach 
and  horse — this  wretched  sum,  this  mite,  which  Bessy  ad- 
ministered among  so  many  poor — I  very  much  fear  her 
father  sometimes  confiscated.  I  charged  the  child  with 
the  fact,  and  she  could  not  deny  me.  I  vowed  a  tremen- 
dous vow,  that  if  ever  I  heard  of  her  giving  Prior  money 
again,  I  would  quit  the  lodgings,  and  never  give  those 
children  lollipop,  nor  pegtop,  nor  sixpence ;  nor  the  pun- 
gent marmalade,  nor  the  biting  gingerbread-nut,  nor  the 
theatre-characters,  nor  the  paint-box  to  illuminate  the 
§ame;  nor  the  discarded  clothes,  which  became  smaller 


THE   BACHELOR  OF  BEAK   STREET  207 

clothes  upon  the  persons  of  little  Tommy  and  little 
Bill,  for  whom  Mrs.  Prior,  and  Bessy,  and  the  little 
maid,  cut,  clipped,  altered,  ironed,  darned,  mangled, 
with  the  greatest  ingenuity.  I  say,  considering  what 
had  passed  between  me  and  the  Priors — considering 
those  money  transactions,  and  those  clothes,  and  my 
kindness  to  the  children— it  was  rather  hard  that  my 
jam-pots  were  poached,  and  my  brandy-bottles  leaked. 
And  then  to  frighten  her  brother  with  the  story 
of  the  inexorable  creditor— oh,  Mrs.  Prior!— oh,  fie, 
Mrs.  P.! 

So  Bessy  went  to  her  school  in  a  shabby  shawl,  a  faded 
bonnet,  and  a  poor  little  lean  dress  flounced  with  the  mud 
and  dust  of  all  weathers,  whereas  there  were  some  other 
young  ladies,  fellow-pupils  of  her,  who  laid  out  their 
gold  medals  to  much  greater  advantage.  Miss  Dela- 
mere,  with  her  eighteen  shillings  a  week  (calling  them 
'' silver  medals"  was  only  my  wit,  }^ou  see),  had  twenty 
new  bonnets,  silk  and  satin  dresses  for  all  seasons,  feath- 
ers in  abundance,  swansdown  muffs  and  tippets,  lovely 
pocket-handkerchiefs  and  trinkets,  and  many  and  many 
a  half-crown  mould  of  jelly,  bottle  of  sherry,  blanket, 
or  what  not,  for  a  poor  fellow-pupil  in  distress ;  and  as 
for  Miss  Montanville,  who  had  exactly  the  same  sal — 
well,  who  had  a  scholarship  of  exactly  the  same  value, 
viz.  about  fifty  pounds  yearly — she  kept  an  elegant  little 
cottage  in  the  Regent's  Park,  a  brougham  with  a  horse 
all  over  brass  harness,  and  a  groom  with  a  prodigious 
gold  lace  hat-band,  M^ho  was  treated  with  frightful  con- 
tumely at  the  neighbouring  cabstand;  an  aunt  or  a 
mother,  I  don't  know  which  (I  hope  it  was  only  an  aunt) , 
always  comfortably  dressed,  and  who  looked  after  Mon- 
tanville :  and  she  herself  had  bracelets,  brooches,  and  vel- 


208  LOVEL  THE  WIDOWER 

vet  pelisses  of  the  very  richest  description.  But  then 
Miss  Montanville  was  a  good  economist.  She  was  never 
known  to  help  a  poor  friend  in  distress,  or  give  a  fainting 
brother  and  sister  a  crust  or  a  glass  of  wine.  She  allowed 
ten  shillings  a  week  to  her  father,  whose  name  was  Bos- 
kinson,  said  to  be  a  clerk  to  a  chapel  in  Paddington ;  but 
she  would  never  see  him— no,  not  when  he  was  in  hos- 
pital, where  he  was  so  ill;  and  though  she  certainly  lent 
Miss  Wilder  thirteen  pounds,  she  had  Wilder  arrested 
upon  her  promissory  note  for  twenty-four,  and  sold  up 
every  stick  of  Wilder's  furniture,  so  that  the  whole  acad- 
emy cried  shame!  Well,  an  accident  occurred  to  Miss 
Montanville,  for  which  those  may  be  sorry  who  choose. 
On  the  evening  of  the  26th  of  December,  Eighteen  hun- 
dred and  something,  when  the  conductors  of  the  academy 
were  giving  their  grand  annual  Christmas  Pant— I 
should  say  examination  of  the  academy  pupils  before 
their  numerous  friends— INIontanville,  who  happened  to 
be  present,  not  in  her  brougham  this  time,  but  in  an 
aerial  chariot  of  splendour  drawn  by  doves,  fell  off  a 
rainbow,  and  through  the  roof  of  the  Revolving  Shrine 
of  the  Amaranthine  Queen,  thereby  very  nearly  damag- 
ing Bellenden,  who  was  occupying  the  shrine,  attired  in 
a  light-blue  spangled  dress,  waving  a  wand,  and  uttering 
some  idiotic  verses  composed  for  her  by  the  Professor  of 
Literature  attached  to  the  academy.  As  for  INIontan- 
ville,  let  her  go  shrieking  down  that  trap-door,  break  her 
leg,  be  taken  home,  and  never  more  be  character  of  ours. 
She  never  could  speak.  Her  voice  was  as  hoarse  as  a 
fishwoman's.    Can  that  immense  stout  old  box-keeper  at 

the theatre,  who  limps  up  to  ladies  on  the  first  tier, 

and  offers  that  horrible  footstool,  which  everybody  stum- 
bles over,  and  makes  a  clumsy  curtsey,  and  looks  so 


THE   BACHELOR  OF   BEAK   STREET  209 

knowing  and  hard,  as  if  she  recognized  an  acquaintance 
in  the  splendid  lady  who  enters  the  box — can  that  old 
female  be  the  once  brilliant  Emily  Montanville?  I  am 
told  there  are  710  lady  box-keepers  in  the  English  thea- 
tres. This,  I  submit,  is  a  proof  of  my  consummate  care 
and  artifice  in  rescuing  from  a  prurient  curiosity  the  in- 
dividual personages  from  whom  the  characters  of  the 
present  story  are  taken.  Montanville  is  7iot  a  box- 
opener.  She  mai/,  under  another  name,  keep  a  trinket- 
shop  in  the  Burlington  Arcade,  for  what  you  know:  but 
this  secret  no  torture  shall  induce  me  to  divulge.  Life 
has  its  rises  and  its  downfalls,  and  you  have  had  yours, 
you  hobbling  old  creature.  Montanville,  indeed!  Go 
thy  ways!  Here  is  a  shilling  for  thee.  (Thank  you, 
sir.)  Take  away  that  confounded  footstool,  and  never 
let  us  see  thee  more ! 

Now  the  fairy  Amarantha  was  like  a  certain  dear 
young  lady  of  whom  we  have  read  in  early  youth.  Up 
to  twelve  o'clock,  attired  in  sparkling  raiment,  she  leads 
the  dance  with  the  prince  (Gradini,  known  as  Grady  in 
his  days  of  banishment  at  the  T.  R.  Dublin).  At  sup- 
per, she  takes  her  place  by  the  prince's  royal  father  (who 
is  alive  now,  and  still  reigns  occasionally,  so  that  we  will 
not  mention  his  revered  name).  She  makes  believe  to 
drink  from  the  gilded  pasteboard,  and  to  eat  of  the 
mighty  pudding.  She  smiles  as  the  good  old  irascible 
monarch  knocks  the  prime  minister  and  the  cooks  about : 
she  blazes  in  splendour:  she  beams  with  a  thousand  jew- 
els, in  comparison  with  which  the  Koh-i-noor  is  a 
wretched  lustreless  little  pebble:  she  disappears  in  a 
chariot,  such  as  a  Lord  Mayor  never  rode  in: — and  at 
midnight,  who  is  that  young  woman  tripping  homeward 
through  the  wet  streets  in  a  battered  bonnet,  a  cotton 


210  LOVEL  THE  WIDOWER 

shawl,  and  a  lean  frock  fringed  with  the  dreary  winter 
flounces  ? 

Our  Cinderella  is  up  early  in  the  morning:  she  does 
no  little  portion  of  the  house-work:  she  dresses  her  sis- 
ters and  brothers:  she  prepares  papa's  breakfast.  On 
days  when  she  has  not  to  go  to  morning  lessons  at  her 
academy,  she  helps  with  the  dinner.  Heaven  help  us! 
She  has  often  brought  mine  when  I  have  dined  at  home, 
and  owns  to  having  made  that  famous  mutton-broth 
when  I  had  a  cold.  Foreigners  come  to  the  house— pro- 
fessional gentlemen— to  see  Slumley  on  the  first  floor; 
exiled  captains  of  Spain  and  Portugal,  companions  of 
the  warrior  her  father.  It  is  surprising  how  she  has 
learned  their  accents,  and  has  picked  up  French,  and 
Italian  too.  And  she  played  the  piano  in  Mr.  Slumley's 
room  sometimes,  as  I  have  said ;  but  refrained  from  that 
presently,  and  from  visiting  him  altogether.  I  suspect 
he  was  not  a  man  of  principle.  His  Paper  used  to  make 
direful  attacks  upon  individual  reputations;  and  you 
would  find  theatre  and  opera  people  most  curiously 
praised  and  assaulted  in  the  Swell.  I  recollect  meeting 
him,  several  years  after,  in  the  lobby  of  the  opera,  in  a 
very  noisy  frame  of  mind,  when  he  heard  a  certain  lady's 
carriage  called,  and  cried  out  with  exceeding  strong  lan- 
guage, which  need  not  be  accurately  reported,  "  Look  at 
that  woman !  Confound  her !  I  made  her,  sir !  Got  her 
an  engagement  when  the  family  was  starving,  sir!  Did 
you  see  her,  sir?  She  wouldn't  even  look  at  me!"  Nor 
indeed  was  Mr.  S.  at  that  moment  a  very  agreeable 
object  to  behold. 

Then  I  remembered  that  there  had  been  some  quarrel 
with  this  man,  when  we  lodged  in  Beak  Street  together. 
If  difficulty  there  was,  it  was  solved  amhulando.     He 


THE  BACHELOR  OF  BEAK   STREET  211 

quitted  the  lodgings,  leaving  an  excellent  and  costly 
piano  as  security  for  a  heavy  bill  which  he  owed  to  Mrs. 
Prior,  and  the  instrument  was  presently  fetched  away 
by  the  music-sellers,  its  owners.     But  regarding  Mr;. 

S 's  valuable  biography,  let  us  speak  very  gently. 

You  see  it  is  "  an  insult  to  literature  "  to  say  that  there 
are  disreputable  and  dishonest  persons  who  write  in 
newspapers. 

Nothing,  dear  friend,  escapes  your  penetration:  if  a 
joke  is  made  in  your  company,  you  are  down  upon  it 
instanter,  and  your  smile  rewards  the  wag  who  amuses 
you :  so  you  knew  at  once,  whilst  I  was  talking  of  Eliz- 
abeth and  her  academy,  that  a  theatre  was  meant,  where 
the  poor  child  danced  for  a  guinea  or  five-and-twenty 
shillings  per  week.  Nay,  she  must  have  had  not  a  little 
skill  and  merit  to  advance  to  the  quarter  of  a  hundred; 
for  she  was  not  pretty  at  this  time,  only  a  rough,  tawny- 
haired  filly  of  a  girl,  with  great  eyes.  Dolphin,  the  man- 
ager, did  not  think  much  of  her,  and  she  passed  before 
him  in  his  regiment  of  Sea-nymphs,  or  Bayaderes,  or 
Fairies,  or  Mazurka  maidens  (with  their  fluttering 
lances  and  little  scarlet  slyboots!)  scarcely  more  noticed 
than  private  Jones  standing  under  arms  in  his  company 
when  his  Royal  Highness  the  Field-Marshal  gallops  by. 
There  were  no  dramatic  triumphs  for  Miss  Bellenden: 
no  bouquets  were  flung  at  her  feet :  no  cunning  Mephis- 
topheles — the  emissary  of  some  philandering  Faustus 
outside — corrupted  her  duenna,  or  brought  her  caskets 
of  diamonds.  Had  there  been  any  such  admirer  for  Bel- 
lenden, Dolphin  would  not  only  not  have  been  shocked, 
but  he  would  very  likely  have  raised  her  salary.  As  it  was, 
though  himself,  I  fear,  a  person  of  loose  morals,  he  re- 
spected better  things.    "  That  Bellenden's  a  good  hhon- 


212  LOVEL  THE  WIDOWER 

est  gurl,"  he  said  to  the  present  writer:  "works  hard: 
gives  her  money  to  her  family:  father  a  shy  old  cove. 
Very  good  family  I  hear  they  are! "  and  he  passes  on  to 
some  other  of  the  innumerable  subjects  which  engage  a 
manager. 

Now,  why  should  a  poor  lodging-house  keeper  make 
such  a  mighty  secret  of  having  a  daughter  earning  an 
honest  guinea  by  dancing  at  a  theatre?  Why  persist  in 
calling  the  theatre  an  academy?  Why  did  JNIrs.  Prior 
speak  of  it  as  such,  to  me  who  knew  what  the  truth  was, 
and  to  whom  Elizabeth  herself  made  no  mystery  of  her 
calling  ? 

There  are  actions  and  events  in  its  life  over  which  de- 
cent Poverty  often  chooses  to  cast  a  veil  that  is  not  un- 
becoming wear.  We  can  all,  if  we  are  minded,  peer 
through  this  poor  flimsy  screen :  often  there  is  no  shame 
behind  it:— only  empty  platters,  poor  scraps,  and  other 
threadbare  evidence  of  want  and  cold.  And  who  is  called 
on  to  show  his  rags  to  the  public,  and  cry  out  his  hunger 
in  the  street?  At  this  time  (her  character  has  developed 
itself  not  so  amiably  since),  Mrs.  Prior  was  outwardly 
respectable;  and  yet,  as  I  have  said,  my  groceries  were 
consumed  with  remarkable  rapidity;  my  wine  and 
brandy-bottles  were  all  leaky,  until  they  were  excluded 
from  air  under  a  patent  lock;— my  Morel's  raspberry 
jam,  of  which  I  was  passionately  fond,  if  exposed  on  the 
table  for  a  few  hours,  was  always  eaten  by  the  cat,  or  that 
wonderful  little  wretch  of  a  maid-of -all-work,  so  active, 
yet  so  patient,  so  kind,  so  dirty,  so  obliging.  Was  it  the 
maid  who  took  those  groceries?  I  have  seen  the  "  Gazza 
Ladra,"  and  know  that  poor  little  maids  are  sometimes 
wrongfully  accused;  and  besides,  in  my  particular  case, 
I  own  I  don't  care  who  the  culprit  was.     At  the  year's 


THE   BACHELOR   OF   BEAK   STREET  213 

end,  a  single  man  is  not  much  poorer  for  this  house-tax 
which  he  pays.  One  Sunday  evening,  being  confined 
with  a  cold,  and  partaking  of  that  mutton-broth  which 
Elizabeth  made  so  well,  and  which  she  brought  me,  I  en- 
treated her  to  bring  from  the  cupboard,  of  which  I  gave 
her  the  key,  a  certain  brandy-bottle.  She  saw  my  face 
when  I  looked  at  her :  there  was  no  mistaking  its  agony. 
There  was  scarce  any  brandy  left:  it  had  all  leaked 
away:  and  it  was  Sunday,  and  no  good  brandy  w^as  to  be 
bought  that  evening. 

Elizabeth,  I  say,  saw  my  grief.  She  put  down  the 
bottle,  and  she  cried:  she  tried  to  prevent  herself  from 
doing  so  at  first,  but  she  fairly  burst  into  tears. 

"  My  dear — dear  child,"  says  I,  seizing  her  hand,  "  you 
don't  suppose  I  fancy  you — " 

"  No — no ! "  she  says,  drawing  the  large  hand  over  her 
eyes.  "  No — no!  but  I  saw  it  when  you  and  Mr.  War- 
rington last  'ad  some.    Oh!  do  have  a  patting  lock!" 

"A  patent  lock,  my  dear!"  I  remarked.  "How  odd 
that  you,  who  have  learned  to  pronounce  Italian  and 
French  words  so  w  ell,  should  make  such  strange  slips  in 
English!    Your  mother  speaks  well  enough." 

"  She  was  born  a  lady.  She  was  not  sent  to  be  a  mil- 
liner's girl,  as  I  was,  and  then  among  those  noisy  girls 
at  that — oh!  that  jjlace!"  cries  Bessy,  in  a  sort  of  des- 
peration, clenching  her  hand. 

Here  the  bells  of  St.  Beak's  began  to  ring  quite 
cheerily  for  evening  service.  I  heard  "  Elizabeth! "  cried 
out  from  the  lower  regions  by  Mrs.  Prior's  cracked 
voice.  And  the  maiden  went  her  way  to  church,  which 
she  and  her  mother  never  missed  of  a  Sunday;  and  I 
dare  say  I  slept  just  as  w^ell  without  the  brandy-and- 
water. 


214  LOVEL  THE  WIDOWER 

Slumley  being  gone,  Mrs.  Prior  came  to  me  rather 
wistfully  one  day,  and  wanted  to  know  whether  I  would 
object  to  Madame  Bentivoglio,  the  opera-singer,  having 
the  first  floor?  This  was  too  much,  indeed!  How  was 
my  work  to  go  on  with  that  woman  practising  all  day 
and  roaring  underneath  me?  But,  after  sending  away 
so  good  a  customer,  I  could  not  refuse  to  lend  the  Priors 
a  little  more  money;  and  Prior  insisted  upon  treating 
me  to  a  new  stamp,  and  making  out  a  new  and  handsome 
bill  for  an  amount  nearly  twice  as  great  as  the  last: 
which  he  had  no  doubt  under  heaven,  and  which  he 
pledged  his  honour  as  an  officer  and  a  gentleman,  that  he 
would  meet.  Let  me  see:  That  was  how  many  years 
ago?— Thirteen,  fourteen,  twenty?  Never  mind.  My 
fair  Elizabeth,  I  think  if  you  saw  your  poor  old  father's 
signature  now,  you  would  pay  it.  I  came  upon  it  lately 
in  an  old  box  I  haven't  opened  these  fifteen  years,  along 
with  some  letters  written — never  mind  by  whom— and 
an  old  glove  that  I  used  to  set  an  absurd  value  by;  and 
that  emerald-green  tabinet  waistcoat  which  kind  old  Mrs. 
Macmanus  gave  me,  and  which  I  wore  at  the  L— d 
L— t— nt's  ball,  Ph-n-x  Park,  Dublin,  once,  when  I 
danced  with /i<?r  there !  Lord!— Lord!  It  would  no  more 
meet  round  my  waist  now  than  round  Daniel  Lambert's. 
How  we  outgrow  things ! 

But  as  I  never  presented  this  united  bill  of  43Z.  odd 
(the  first  portion  of  2Sl.,  &c.  was  advanced  by  me  in 
order  to  pay  an  execution  out  of  the  house)  —as  I  never 
expected  to  have  it  paid  any  more  than  I  did  to  be  Lord 
Mayor  of  London,— I  say  it  was  a  little  hard  that  Mrs. 
Prior  should  write  off  to  her  brother  (she  writes  a  capital 
letter) ,  blessing  Providence  that  had  given  him  a  noble 
income,  promising  him  the  benefit  of  her  prayers,  in 


THE  BACHELOR  OF   BEAK   STREET  215 

order  that  he  should  long  live  to  enjoy  his  large  salary, 
and  informing  him  that  an  obdurate  creditor,  who  shall 
be  nameless  (meaning  me),  who  had  Captain  Prior  in 
his  power  (as  if,  being  in  possession  of  that  dingy  scrawl, 
I  should  have  known  what  to  do  with  it) ,  who  held  Mr, 
Prior's  accei)tance  for  43/.  14*.  4^.  due  on  the  3rd  July 
(my  bill),  would  infallibly  bring  their  family  to  ruin, 
unless  a  part  of  the  money  was  paid  up.  When  I  went 
up  to  my  old  college,  and  called  on  Sargent,  at  Boniface 
Lodge,  he  treated  me  as  civilly  as  if  I  had  been  an  under- 
graduate ;  scarcely  si)oke  to  me  in  hall,  where,  of  course, 
I  dined  at  the  Fellows'  table ;  and  only  asked  me  to  one 
of  Mrs.  Sargent's  confounded  tea-parties  during  the 
whole  time  of  my  stay.  Now  it  was  by  this  man's  en- 
treaty that  I  went  to  lodge  at  Prior's;  he  talked  to  me 
after  dinner  one  day,  he  hummed,  he  ha'd,  he  blushed, 
he  prated  in  his  pompous  way,  about  an  unfortunate 
sister  in  London— fatal  early  marriage— husband.  Cap- 
tain Prior,  Knight  of  the  Swan  with  Tw^o  Necks  of  Por- 
tugal, most  distinguished  officer,  but  imprudent  specu- 
lator—advantageous lodgings  in  the  centre  of  London, 
quiet,  though  near  the  Clubs— if  I  Avas  ill  (I  am  a  con- 
firmed invalid),  Mrs.  Prior,  his  sister,  would  nurse  me 
like  a  mother.  So,  in  a  word,  I  went  to  Prior's :  I  took 
the  rooms:  I  was  attracted  by  some  children:  Amelia 
Jane  (that  little  dirty  maid  before  mentioned)  dragging 
a  go-cart,  containing  a  little  dirty  pair ;  another  march- 
ing by  them,  carrying  a  fourth  well  nigh  as  big  as  him- 
self. These  little  folks,  having  threaded  the  mighty 
flood  of  Regent  Street,  debouched  into  the  quiet  creek 
of  Beak  Street,  just  as  I  happened  to  follow  them.  And 
the  door  at  which  the  small  caravan  halted,— the  very 
door  I  was  in  search  of,— was  opened  by  Ehzabeth,  then 


216  LOVEL  THE  WIDOWER 

only  just  emerging  from  childhood,  with  tawny  hair 
falling  into  her  solemn  eyes. 

The  aspect  of  these  little  people,  which  would  have  de- 
terred man}^  happened  to  attract  me.  I  am  a  lonely 
man.  I  may  have  been  ill-treated  by  some  one  once, 
but  that  is  neither  here  nor  there.  If  I  had  had  children 
of  my  own,  I  think  I  should  have  been  good  to  them. 
I  thought  Prior  a  dreadful  vulgar  wretch,  and  his  wife 
a  scheming,  greedy  little  woman.  But  the  children 
amused  me:  and  I  took  the  rooms,  liking  to  hear  over- 
head in  the  morning  the  patter  of  their  little  feet.  The 
person  I  mean  has  several; — husband,  judge  in  the  West 
Indies.  Allons!  now  you  know  how  I  came  to  live  at 
Mrs.  Prior's. 

Though  I  am  now  a  steady,  a  confirmed  old  bachelor 
(I  shall  call  myself  Mr.  Batchelor,  if  you  please,  in  this 
story;  and  there  is  some  one  far — far  away  who  knows 
why  I  will  NEVER  take  another  title ) ,  I  was  a  gay  young 
fellow  enough  once.  I  was  not  above  the  pleasures  of 
youth :  in  fact,  I  learned  quadrilles  on  purpose  to  dance 
with  her  that  long  vacation  when  I  went  to  read  with  my 
young  friend,  Lord  Viscount  Poldoody  at  Dub — psha! 
Be  still,  thou  foolish  heart !  Perhaps  I  misspent  my  time 
as  an  undergraduate.  Perhaps  I  read  too  many  novels, 
occupied  myself  too  much  with  "  elegant  literature " 
(that  used  to  be  our  phrase) ,  and  spoke  too  often  at  the 
Union,  where  I  had  a  considerable  reputation.  But 
those  fine  words  got  me  no  college  prizes:  I  missed  my 
fellowship :  was  rather  in  disgrace  with  my  relations  af- 
terwards, but  had  a  small  independence  of  my  own, 
which  I  eked  out  by  taking  a  few  pupils  for  little-goes 
and  the  common  degree.  At  length,  a  relation  dying, 
and  leaving  me  a  further  small  income,  I  left  the  univer- 
sity, and  came  to  reside  in  London. 


THE   BACHELOR  OF  BEAK   STREET  217 

Now  in  my  third  year  at  college,  there  came  to  St. 
Boniface  a  young  gentleman,  who  was  one  of  the  few 
gentlemen-pensioners  of  our  society.  His  popularity 
speedily  was  great.  A  kindly  and  simple  j^outh,  he 
would  have  been  liked,  I  dare  say,  even  though  he  had 
been  no  richer  than  the  rest  of  us ;  but  this  is  certain,  that 
flattery,  worldliness,  mammon-worship,  are  vices  as  well 
known  to  young  as  to  old  boys ;  and  a  rich  lad  at  school 
or  college  has  his  followers,  tuft-hunters,  led-captains, 
little  courts,  just  as  much  as  any  elderly  millionaire  of 
Pall  INIall,  who  gazes  round  his  club  to  see  whom  he  shall 
take  home  to  dinner,  while  humble  trencher-men  wait 
anxiously,  thinking— Ah!  will  he  take  me  this  time?  or 
will  he  ask  that  abominable  sneak  and  toady  Henchman 
again?  Well— well!  this  is  an  old  story  about  parasites 
and  flatterers.  My  dear  good  sir,  I  am  not  for  a  moment 
going  to  say  that  you  ever  were  one ;  and  I  dare  say  it 
was  very  base  and  mean  of  us  to  like  a  man  chiefly  on 
account  of  his  money.  "  I  know  "—Fred  Lovel  used  to 
say — "  I  know  fellows  come  to  my  rooms  because  I  have 
a  large  allowance,  and  plenty  of  my  poor  old  governor's 
wine,  and  give  good  dinners:  I  am  not  deceived;  but, 
at  least,  it  is  pleasanter  to  come  to  me  and  have  good 
dinners,  and  good  wine,  than  to  go  to  Jack  Highson's 
dreary  tea  and  turnout,  or  to  Ned  Roper's  abominable 
Oxbridge  port."  And  so  I  admit  at  once  that  Lovel's 
parties  were  more  agreeable  than  most  men's  in  the  col- 
lege. Perhaps  the  goodness  of  the  fare,  by  pleasing  the 
guests,  made  them  more  pleasant.  A  dinner  in  hall,  and 
a  pewter  plate  is  all  very  well,  and  I  can  say  grace  before 
it  with  all  my  heart ;  but  a  dinner  with  fish  from  London, 
game,  and  two  or  three  nice  little  entrees,  is  better— and 
there  was  no  better  cook  in  the  university  than  ours  at 
St.   Boniface,  and  ah  me!  there  were  appetites  then. 


218  LOVEL  THE  WIDOWER 

and  digestions  which  rendered  the  good  dinner  doubly 
good. 

Between  me  and  young  Lovel  a  friendship  sprang  up, 
which,  I  trust,  even  the  pubhcation  of  this  story  will  not 
diminish.  There  is  a  period,  immediately  after  the  tak- 
ing of  his  bachelor's  degree,  when  many  a  university- 
man  finds  himself  embarrassed.  The  tradesmen  rather 
rudely  press  for  a  settlement  of  their  accounts.  Those 
prints  we  ordered  calidi  juventd;  those  shirt-studs  and 
pins  which  the  jewellers  would  persist  in  thrusting  into 
our  artless  bosoms;  those  fine  coats  we  would  insist  on 
having  for  our  books,  as  well  as  ourselves ;  all  these  have 
to  be  paid  for  by  the  graduate.  And  my  father,  who 
was  then  alive,  refusing  to  meet  these  demands,  under 
the— I  own — just  plea,  that  my  allowance  had  been  am- 
ple, and  that  my  half-sisters  ought  not  to  be  mulcted  of 
their  slender  portions  in  consequence  of  my  extrava- 
gance, I  should  have  been  subject  to  very  serious  incon- 
venience— nay,  possibly,  to  personal  incarceration — had 
not  Lovel,  at  the  risk  of  rustication,  rushed  up  to  Lon- 
don to  his  mother  (who  then  had  especial  reasons  for 
being  very  gracious  with  her  son),  obtained  a  supply  of 
money  from  her,  and  brought  it  to  me  at  JNIr.  Shackell's 
horrible  hotel,  where  I  was  lodged.  He  had  tears  in  his 
kind  eyes ;  he  grasped  my  hand  a  hundred  and  hundred 
times  as  he  flung  the  notes  into  my  lap ;  and  the  record- 
ing tutor  (Sargent  was  only  tutor  then) ,  who  was  going 
to  bring  him  up  before  the  master  for  breach  of  disci- 
pline, dashed  away  a  drop  from  his  own  lid,  when,  with 
a  moving  eloquence,  I  told  what  had  happened,  and 
blotted  out  the  transaction  with  some  particular  old  1811 
Port,  of  which  we  freely  partook  in  his  private  rooms 
that  evening.    By  laborious  instalments,  I  had  the  hap- 


THE  BACHELOR  OF  BEAK   STREET  219 

piness  to  pay  Lovel  back.  I  took  pupils,  as  I  said;  I 
engaged  in  literary  pursuits :  I  became  connected  with  a 
literary  periodical,  and,  I  am  ashamed  to  say,  I  imposed 
myself  upon  the  public  as  a  good  classical  scholar.  I  was 
not  thought  the  less  learned,  when,  my  relative  dying,  I 
found  myself  in  possession  of  a  small  independency ;  and 
my  "  Translations  from  the  Greek,"  my  "  Poems  by 
Beta,"  and  my  articles  in  the  paper  of  which  I  was  part 
proprietor  for  several  years,  have  had  their  little  success 
in  their  day. 

Indeed  at  Oxbridge,  if  I  did  not  obtain  university 
honours,  at  least  I  showed  literary  tastes.  I  got  the  prize 
essay  one  year  at  Boniface,  and  plead  guilty  to  having 
written  essays,  poems,  and  a  tragedy.  My  college 
friends  had  a  joke  at  my  expense  (a  very  small  joke 
serves  to  amuse  those  port-wine-bibbing  fogies,  and 
keeps  them  laughing  for  ever  so  long  a  time)  —they  are 
welcome,  I  say,  to  make  merry  at  my  charges— in  respect 
of  a  certain  bargain  which  I  made  on  coming  to  London, 
and  in  which,  had  I  been  Moses  Primrose  purchasing 
green  spectacles,  I  could  scarcely  have  been  more  taken 
in.  My  Jenkinson  was  an  old  college  acquaintance, 
whom  I  was  idiot  enough  to  imagine  a  respectable  man : 
the  fellow  had  a  very  smooth  tongue,  and  sleek,  sancti- 
fied exterior.  He  was  rather  a  popular  preacher,  and 
used  to  cry  a  good  deal  in  the  pulpit.  He,  and  a  queer 
wine-merchant  and  bill-discounter,  Sherrick  by  name, 
had  somehow  got  possession  of  that  neat  little  literary 
paper,  the  Museum,  which,  perhaps,  you  remember ;  and 
this  eligible  literary  property  my  friend  Honeyman, 
with  his  wheedling  tongue,  induced  me  to  purchase.  I 
bear  no  malice :  the  fellow  is  in  India  now,  where  I  trust 
he  pays  his  butcher  and  baker.     He  was  in  dreadful 


220  LOVEL  THE  WIDOWER 

straits  for  money  when  he  sold  me  the  Museum.  He 
began  crying  when  I  told  him  some  short  time  after- 
wards that  he  was  a  swindler,  and  from  behind  his 
pocket-handkerchief  sobbed  a  prayer  that  I  should  one 
day  think  better  of  him;  whereas  my  remarks  to  the 
same  effect  produced  an  exactly  contrary  impression 
upon  his  accomplice,  Sherrick,  who  burst  out  laughing 
in  my  face,  and  said,  "  The  more  fool  you."  Mr.  Sher- 
rick was  right.  He  was  a  fool,  without  mistake,  who  had 
any  money-dealing  with  him;  and  poor  Honeyman  was 
right,  too;  I  don't  think  so  badly  of  him  as  I  did.  A 
fellow  so  hardly  pinched  for  money  could  not  resist  the 
temptation  of  extracting  it  from  such  a  greenhorn.  I 
dare  say  I  gave  myself  airs  as  editor  of  that  confounded 
Museum,  and  proposed  to  educate  the  public  taste,  to 
diffuse  morality  and  sound  literature  throughout  the 
nation,  and  to  pocket  a  liberal  salary  in  return  for  my 
services.  I  dare  say  I  printed  my  own  sonnets,  jny  own 
tragedy,  my  own  verses  (to  a  Being  who  shall  be 
nameless,  but  whose  conduct  has  caused  a  faithful  heart 
to  bleed  not  a  little ) .  I  dare  say  I  wrote  satirical  arti- 
cles, in  which  I  piqued  myself  upon  the  fineness  of  my 
wit,  and  criticisms,  got  up  for  the  nonce  out  of  encyclo- 
paedias and  biographical  dictionaries;  so  that  I  would 
be  actually  astounded  at  my  own  knowledge.  I  dare 
say  I  made  a  gaby  of  myself  to  the  world:  praj'-,  my 
good  friend,  hast  thou  never  done  likewise?  If  thou  hast 
never  been  a  fool,  be  sure  thou  wilt  never  be  a  wise  man. 
I  think  it  was  my  brilliant  confrere  on  the  first  floor 
(he  had  pecuniary  transactions  with  Sherrick, and  visited 
two  or  three  of  her  Majesty's  metropolitan  prisons  at 
that  gentleman's  suit)  who  first  showed  me  how  griev- 
ously  I  had  been  cheated  in  the  newspaper  matter. 


THE   BACHELOR  OF  BEAK   STREET  221 

Slumley  wrote  for  a  paper  printed  at  our  office.  The 
same  boy  often  brought  proofs  to  both  of  us — a  Httle 
bit  of  a  puny  bright-eyed  chap,  who  looked  scarce  twelve 
years  old,  when  he  was  sixteen;  who  in  wit  was  a  man, 
when  in  stature  he  was  a  child, — like  many  other  chil- 
dren of  the  poor. 

This  little  Dick  Bedford  used  to  sit  many  hours  asleep 
on  my  landing-place  or  Slumley's,  whilst  we  were  pre- 
paring our  invaluable  compositions  within  our  respective 

apartments.     S was  a  good-natured  reprobate,  and 

gave  the  child  of  his  meat  and  his  drink.  I  used  to  like 
to  help  the  little  man  from  my  breakfast,  and  see  him 
enjoy  the  meal.  As  he  sat,  with  his  bag  on  his  knees, 
his  head  sunk  in  sleep,  his  little  high-lows  scarce  reaching 
the  floor,  Dick  made  a  touching  little  picture.  The 
whole  house  was  fond  of  him.  The  tipsy  captain  nodded 
him  a  welcome  as  he  swaggered  downstairs,  stock,  and 
coat,  and  waistcoat  in  hand,  to  his  worship's  toilette  in 
the  back  kitchen.  The  children  and  Dick  were  good 
friends;  and  Elizabeth  patronized  him,  and  talked  with 
him  now  and  again,  in  her  grave  way.  You  know  Clancy 
the  composer? — know  him  better,  perhaps,  under  his 
name  of  Friedrich  Donner?  Donner  used  to  write  music 
to  Slumley's  words,  or  vice  versa;  and  would  come  now 
and  again  to  Beak  Street,  where  he  and  his  poet  would 
try  their  joint  work  at  the  piano.  At  the  sound  of  that 
music,  little  Dick's  eyes  used  to  kindle.  "  Oh,  it's 
prime! "  said  the  young  enthusiast.  And  I  will  say,  that 
good-natured  miscreant  of  a  Slumley  not  only  gave  the 
child  pence,  but  tickets  for  the  play,  concerts,  and  so 
forth.  Dick  had  a  neat  little  suit  of  clothes  at  home ;  his 
mother  made  him  a  very  nice  little  waistcoat  out  of  my 
undergraduate's  gown,  and  he  and  she,  a  decent  woman, 


222  LOVEL  THE  WIDOWER 

when  in  their  best  raiment,  looked  respectable  enough 
for  any  theatre-pit  in  England. 

Amongst  other  places  of  public  amusement  which  he 
attended,  jNIr.  Dick  frequented  the  academy  where  Miss 
Bellenden  danced,  and  whence  poor  Elizabeth  Prior 
issued  forth  after  midnight  in  her  shabby  frock.  And 
once,  the  Captain,  Elizabeth's  father  and  protector,  be- 
ing unable  to  walk  very  accurately,  and  noisy  and  inco- 
herent in  his  speech,  so  that  the  attention  of  Messieurs 
of  the  police  was  directed  towards  him,  Dick  came  up, 
placed  Elizabeth  and  her  father  in  a  cab,  paid  the  fare 
with  his  own  money,  and  brought  the  whole  partj^  home 
in  triumph,  himself  sitting  on  the  box  of  the  vehicle.  I 
chanced  to  be  coming  home  myself  (from  one  of  Mrs. 
Wateringham's  elegant  tea  soirees,  in  Dorset  Square), 
and  reached  my  door  just  at  the  arrival  of  Dick  and  his 
caravan.  "Here,  cabby!"  says  Dick,  handing  out  the 
fare,  and  looking  with  his  brightest  eyes.  It  is  pleas- 
anter  to  look  at  that  beaming  little  face,  than  at  the  Cap- 
tain yonder,  reeling  into  his  house,  supported  bj^  his 
daughter.  Dick  cried,  Elizabeth  told  me,  when,  a  week 
afterwards,  she  wanted  to  pay  him  back  his  shilling ;  and 
she  said  he  was  a  strange  child,  that  he  was. 

I  revert  to  my  friend  Lovel.  I  was  coaching  Lovel 
for  his  degree  (which,  between  ourselves,  I  think  he 
never  would  have  attained),  when  he  suddenly  an- 
nounced to  me,  from  Weymouth,  where  he  was  passing 
the  vacation,  his  intention  to  quit  the  university,  and  to 
travel  abroad.  "Events  have  happened,  dear  friend," 
he  wrote,  "  which  will  make  my  mother's  home  miserable 
to  me  (I  Httle  knew  when  I  went  to  town  about  your 
business,  what  caused  her  wonderful  eo7nplaisance  to 
me).     She  would  have  broken  my  heart,  Charles"  (my 


THE  BACHELOR  OF  BEAK   STREET  223 

Christian  name  is  Charles) ,  "  but  its  wounds  have  found 
a  consoler!'' 

Now,  in  this  little  chapter,  there  are  some  little  mys- 
teries propounded,  upon  which,  were  I  not  above  any 
such  artifice,  I  might  easily  leave  the  reader  to  ponder 
for  a  month. 

1.  Why  did  Mrs.  Prior,  at  the  lodgings,  persist  in 
calling  the  theatre  at  which  her  daughter  danced  the 
academy  ? 

2.  What  were  the  special  reasons  why  Mrs.  Lovel 
should  be  very  gracious  with  her  son,  and  give  him  150Z. 
as  soon  as  he  asked  for  the  money? 

3.  Why  was  Fred  Lovel's  heart  nearly  broken?    And 

4.  Who  was  his  consoler? 

I  answer  these  at  once,  and  without  the  slightest  at- 
tempt at  delay  or  circumlocution.  1.  Mrs.  Prior,  who 
had  repeatedly  received  money  from  her  brother,  John 
Erasmus  Sargent,  D.D.,  Master  of  St.  Boniface  Col- 
lege, knew  perfectly  well  that  if  the  Master  (whom  she 
already  pestered  out  of  his  life)  heard  that  she  had  sent 
a  niece  of  his  on  the  stage,  he  would  never  give  her  an- 
other shilling. 

2.  The  reason  why  Emma,  widow  of  the  late  Adol- 
phus  LoefFel,  of  Whitechapel  Road,  sugar-baker,  was 
so  particularly  gracious  to  her  son,  Adolphus  Frederick 
Lovel,  Esq.,  of  St.  Boniface  College,  Oxbridge,  and 
principal  partner  in  the  house  of  LoefFel  aforesaid,  an 
infant,  was  that  she,  Emma,  was  about  to  contract  a  sec- 
ond marriage  with  the  Rev.  Samuel  Bonnington. 

3.  Fred  Lovel's  heart  was  so  very  much  broken  by  this 
intelligence,  that  he  gave  himself  airs  of  Hamlet,  dressed 
in  black,  wore  his  long  fair  hair  over  his  eyes,  and  ex- 
hibited a  hundred  signs  of  grief  and  desperation:  until — 


224  LOVEL  THE  WIDOWER 

4.  Louisa  (widow  of  the  late  Sir  Pophain  Baker,  of 
Bakerstown,  co.  Kilkenny,  Baronet,)  induced  Mr.  Lovel 
to  take  a  trip  on  the  Rhine  with  her  and  Cecilia,  fourth 
and  only  unmarried  daughter  of  the  aforesaid  Sir  Pop- 
ham  Baker,  deceased. 

My  opinion  of  Cecilia  I  have  candidly  given  in  a  pre- 
vious page.  I  adhere  to  that  opinion.  I  shall  not  repeat 
it.  The  subject  is  disagreeable  to  me,  as  the  woman  her- 
self was  in  life.  What  Fred  found  in  her  to  admire  I 
cannot  tell:  lucky  for  us  all  that  tastes,  men,  women, 
vary.  You  will  never  see  her  alive  in  this  history.  That 
is  her  picture,  painted  by  the  late  Mr.  Gandish.  She 
stands  fingering  that  harp  with  which  she  has  often 
driven  me  half  mad  with  her  "  Tara's  Halls  "  and  her 
"  Poor  Marianne."  She  used  to  bully  Fred  so,  and  be 
so  rude  to  his  guests,  that  in  order  to  pacify  her,  he  would 
meanly  say,  "Do,  my  love,  let  us  have  a  little  music!" 
and  thrumpty — thrumpty,  off  would  go  her  gloves,  and 
"  Tara's  Halls  "  would  begin.  "  The  harp  that  once," 
indeed!  the  accursed  catgut  scarce  knew  any  other 
music,  and  "once"  was  a  hundred  times  at  least  in  my 
hearing.  Then  came  the  period  when  I  was  treated  to 
the  cold  joint  which  I  have  mentioned;  and,  not  liking 
it,  I  gave  up  going  to  Shrublands. 

So,  too,  did  my  Lady  Baker,  but  not  of  her  own  free 
will,  mind  you.  She  did  not  quit  the  premises  because 
her  reception  was  too  cold,  but  because  the  house  was 
made  a  great  deal  too  hot  for  her.  I  remember  Fred 
coming  to  me  in  high  spirits,  and  describing  to  me,  with 
no  little  humour,  a  great  battle  between  Cecilia  and  Lady 
Baker,  and  her  ladyship's  defeat  and  flight.  She  fled, 
however,  only  as  far  as  Putney  village,  where  she  formed 
again,  as  it  were,  and  fortified  herself  in  a  lodging. 


I  am  Referred  to  Cecilia 


THE  BACHELOR  OF  BEAK   STREET  225 

Next  day  she  made  a  desperate  and  feeble  attack,  pre- 
senting herself  at  Shrublands  lodge-gate,  and  threaten- 
ing that  she  and  sorrow  would  sit  down  before  it;  and 
that  all  the  world  should  know  how  a  daughter  treated 
her  mother.  But  the  gate  was  locked,  and  Barnet,  the 
gardener,  appeared  behind  it,  saying,  "  Since  you  are 
come,  my  lady,  perhaps  you  will  pay  my  missis  the  f our- 
and-twenty  shillings  you  borrowed  of  her."  And  he 
grinned  at  her  through  the  bars,  until  she  fled  before 
him,  cowering.  Lovel  paid  the  little  forgotten  account ; 
the  best  four-and-twenty  shillings  he  had  ever  laid  out, 
he  said. 

Eight  years  passed  away;  during  the  last  four  of 
which  I  scarce  saw  my  old  friend,  except  at  clubs  and 
taverns,  where  we  met  privily,  and  renewed,  not  old 
warmth  and  hilarity,  but  old  kindness.  One  winter,  he 
took  his  family  abroad;  Cecilia's  health  was  delicate, 
Lovel  told  me,  and  the  doctor  had  advised  that  she  should 
spend  a  winter  in  the  south.  He  did  not  stay  with  them : 
he  had  pressing  affairs  at  home;  he  had  embarked  in 
many  businesses  besides  the  paternal  sugar-bakery ;  was 
concerned  in  companies,  a  director  of  a  joint-stock  bank, 
a  man  in  whose  fire  were  many  irons.  A  faithful  gov- 
erness was  with  the  children;  a  faithful  man  and  maid 
were  in  attendance  on  the  invalid;  and  Lovel,  adoring 
his  wife,  as  he  certainly  did,  yet  supported  her  absence 
with  great  equanimity. 

In  the  spring  I  was  not  a  little  scared  to  read  amongst 
the  deaths  in  the  newspaper: — "At  Naples,  of  scarlet 
fever,  on  the  25th  ult.,  Cecilia,  wife  of  Frederick  Lovel, 
Esq.,  and  daughter  of  the  late  Sir  Popham  Baker, 
Bart."  I  knew  what  my  friend's  grief  would  be.  He 
had  hurried  abroad  at  the  news  of  her  illness ;  he  did  not 


226  LOVEL  THE  WIDOWER 

reach  Naples  in  time  to  receive  the  last  words  of  his  poor 
Cecilia. 

Some  months  after  the  catastrophe,  I  had  a  note  from 
Shrublands.  Lovel  wrote  quite  in  the  old  affectionate 
tone.  He  begged  his  dear  old  friend  to  go  to  him,  and 
console  him  in  his  solitude.  Would  I  come  to  dinner  that 
evening? 

Of  course  I  went  off  to  him  straightway.  I  found 
him  in  deep  sables  in  the  drawing-room  with  his  children, 
and  I  confess  I  was  not  astonished  to  see  my  Lady  Baker 
once  more  in  that  room. 

"  You  seem  surprised  to  see  me  here,  Mr.  Batchelor? " 
says  her  ladyship,  with  that  grace  and  good-breeding 
which  she  generally  exhibited ;  for  if  she  accepted  bene- 
fits, she  took  care  to  insult  those  from  whom  she  received 
them. 

"  Indeed,  no,"  said  I,  looking  at  Lovel,  who  piteously 
hung  down  his  head.  He  had  his  little  Cissy  at  his  knee: 
he  was  sitting  under  the  portrait  of  the  defunct  musician, 
whose  harp,  now  muffled  in  leather,  stood  dimly  in  the 
corner  of  the  room. 

"  I  am  here  not  at  my  own  wish,  but  from  a  feeling  of 
duty  towards  that— departed— angel! "  says  Lady 
Baker,  pointing  to  the  picture. 

"  I  am  sure  when  mamma  was  here,  you  were  always 
quarrelling,"  says  little  Popham,  with  a  scowl. 

"  This  is  the  way  those  innocent  children  have  been 
taught  to  regard  me,"  cries  grandmamma. 

"  Silence,  Pop,"  says  papa,  "  and  don't  be  a  rude  boy." 

"  Isn't  Pop  a  rude  boy? "  echoes  Cissy. 

"  Silence,  Pop,"  continues  papa,  "  or  you  must  go  up 
to  Miss  Prior." 


CHAPTER  II 


IN    WHICH    MISS    PRIOR    IS    KEPT   AT   THE   DOOR 


course  we  all  know  who 
'  was,  the  Miss  Prior  of 
Shrublands,  whom  papa 
and  grandmamma 
called  to  the  unruly 
children.  Years  had 
passed  since  I  had 
shaken  the  Beak 
Street  dust  off  my 
feet.  The  brass  plate 
of  ' '  Prior  ' '  was  re- 
moved from  the 
once  familiar  door, 
and  screwed,  for 
what  I  can  tell, 
on  to  the  late  rep- 
robate owner's  cof- 
fin. A  little  erup- 
tion of  mushroom- 
formed  brass  knobs 
I  saw  on  the  door- 
post when  I  passed  by  it  last  week,  and  Cafe  des  Am- 
BASSADEURS  was  tliereon  inscribed,  with  three  fly-blown 
blue  teacups,  a  couple  of  coffee-pots  of  the  well-known 
Britannia  metal,  and  two  freckled  copies  of  the  Inde- 

291 


228  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

pendance  Beige  hanging  over  the  window-bhnd.    Were 
those  their  Excellencies  the  Ambassadors  at  the  door, 
smoking  cheroots?     Pool  and  BilHards  were  written  on 
their  countenances,  their  hats,  their  elbows.     They  may 
have  been  ambassadors  down  on  their  luck,  as  the  phrase 
is.     They  were  in  disgrace,  no  doubt,  at  the  court  of  her 
imperial  majesty  Queen  Fortune.    Men  as  shabby  have 
retrieved  their  disgraces  ere  now,  washed  their  cloudy 
faces,  strapped  their  dingy  waistcoats  with  cordons,  and 
stepped  into  fine  carriages  from  quarters  not  a  whit 
more  reputable  than  the   "Cafe  des   Ambassadeurs." 
If  I  lived  in  the  Leicester  Square  neighbourhood,  and 
kept  a  cafe,  I  would  always  treat  foreigners  with  re- 
spect.    They  may  be  bilhard-markers  now,  or  doing  a 
little  shady  police  business;  but  why  should  they  not 
afterwards  be  generals  and  great  officers  of  state?    Sup- 
pose that  gentleman  is  at  present  a  barber,  with  his  tongs 
and  stick  of  fixature  for  the  moustaches,  how  do  you 
know  he  has  not  his  epaulettes  and  his  baton  de  marcchal 
in  the  same  pouch?    I  see  engraven  on  the  second-floor 
bell,  on  my  rooms,  "Plugwell."     Who  can  Plugwell 
be,  whose  feet  now  warm  at  the  fire  where  I  sat  many 
a  long  evening?    And  this  gentleman  with  the  fur  col- 
lar, the  straggling  beard,  the  frank  and  engaging  leer, 
the  somewhat  husky  voice,  who  is  calling  out  on  the 
doorstej),  "  Step  in,  and  'ave  it  done.     Your  correct 
likeness,  only  one  shilling"— is  he  an  ambassador  too? 
Ah,  no:  he  is  only  the  cliarge-d' affaires  of  a  photog- 
rapher who  lives  upstairs :  no  doubt  where  the  little  ones 
used  to  be.     Bless  me!     Photograpliy  was  an  infant, 
and  in  the  nursery,  too,  when  we  lived  in  Beak  Street. 

Shall  I  own  that,  for  old  time's  sake,  I  went  upstairs, 
and  "  'ad  it  done"— that  correct  likeness,  price  one  shil- 


MISS  PRIOR  IS  KEPT  AT  THE  DOOR    229 

ling?  Would  Some  One  (I  have  said,  I  think,  that  the 
party  in  question  is  well  married  in  a  distant  island) 
like  to  have  the  thing,  I  wonder,  and  be  reminded  of  a 
man  whom  she  knew  in  life's  prime,  with  brown  curly 
locks,  as  she  looked  on  the  effigy  of  this  elderly  gentle- 
man, with  a  forehead  as  bare  as  a  billiard-ball? 

As  I  went  up  and  down  that  darkling  stair,  the  ghosts 
of  the  Prior  children  peeped  out  from  the  banisters ;  the 
little  faces  smiled  in  the  twilight:  it  may  be  wounds  (of 
the  heart)  throbbed  and  bled  again,  —oh,  how  freshly 
and  keenly!  How  infernally  I  have  suffered  behind 
that  door  in  that  room — I  mean  that  one  where  Plugwell 
now  lives.  Confound  Plugwell!  I  wonder  what  that 
woman  thinks  of  me  as  she  sees  me  shaking  my  fist  at  the 
door?  Do  you  think  me  mad,  madam?  I  don't  care  if 
you  do.  Do  you  think  when  I  spoke  anon  of  the  ghosts 
of  Prior's  children,  I  mean  that  any  of  them  are  dead? 
None  are,  that  I  know  of.  A  great  hulking  Bluecoat 
boy,  with  fluffy  whiskers,  spoke  to  me  not  long  since,  in 
an  awful  bass  voice,  and  announced  his  name  as  "  Gus 
Prior."  And  "How's  Elizabeth?"  he  added,  nodding 
his  bullet  head.  Elizabeth,  indeed,  you  great  vulgar 
boy!  Elizabeth, — and,  by  the  way,  how  long  we  have 
been  keeping  her  waiting ! 

You  see,  as  I  beheld  her,  a  heap  of  memories  struck 
upon  me,  and  I  could  not  help  chattering;  when  of 
course— and  you  are  perfectly  right,  only  you  might 
just  as  well  have  left  the  observation  alone:  for  I  knew 
quite  well  what  you  were  going  to  say — when  I  had 
much  better  have  held  my  tongue.  Elizabeth  means  a 
history  to  me.  She  came  to  me  at  a  critical  period  of  my 
life.  Bleeding  and  wounded  from  the  conduct  of  that 
other  individual  (by  her  present  name  of  Mrs.  O'D— her 


230  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

present  O'D -ous  name— I  say,  I  will  never— never  call 
her)  — desperately  wounded  and  miserable  on  my  re- 
turn from  a  neighbouring  capital,  I  went  back  to  my 
lodgings  in  Beak  Street,  and  there  there  grew  up  a 
strange  intimacy  between  me  and  my  landlady's  young 
daughter.  I  told  her  my  story— indeed,  I  believe  I 
told  anybody  who  would  listen.  She  seemed  to  compas- 
sionate me.  She  would  come  wistfully  into  my  rooms, 
bringing  me  my  gruel  and  things  ( I  could  scarcely  bear 
to  eat  for  a  while  after— after  that  affair  to  which  I  may 
have  alluded  before)  —she  used  to  come  to  me,  and  she 
used  to  pity  me,  and  I  used  to  tell  her  all,  and  to  tell  her 
over  and  over  again.  Days  and  days  have  I  passed  tear- 
ing my  heart  out  in  that  second-floor  room  which  an- 
swers to  the  name  of  Plugwell  now.  Afternoon  after 
afternoon  have  I  spent  there,  and  poured  out  my  story 
of  love  and  wrong  to  Elizabeth,  showed  her  that  waist- 
coat I  told  you  of —that  glove  (her  hand  wasn't  so  very 
small  either)  —her  letters,  those  two  or  three  vacuous, 
meaningless  letters,  with  "  My  dear  sir— Mamma  hopes 
you  will  come  to  tea;"  or,  "If  dear  Mr.  Batchelor 
should  be  riding  in  the  Phoenix  Park  near  the  Long 
Milestone,  about  2,  my  sister  and  I  will  be  in  the  car, 
and,"  &c. ;  or,  "Oh,  you  kind  man!  the  tickets"  (she 
called  it  tickuts—hy  heaven!  she  did)  "were  too  wel- 
come, and  the  houquays  too  lovely"  (this  word,  I  saw, 
had  been  operated  on  with  a  penknife.  I  found  no 
faults,  not  even  in  her  spelling— then)  ;  or— never  mind 
what  more.  But  more  of  this  puling,  of  this  humbug,  of 
this  had  spelling,  of  this  infernal  jilting,  swindhng, 
heartless  hypocrisy  ( all  her  mother's  doing,  I  own ;  for 
until  he  got  his  pilace,  my  rival  was  not  so  well  received 
as  I  was)  —more  of  this  rubbish,  I  say,  I  showed  Eliza- 
beth, and  she  pitied  me  I 


MISS  PRIOR  IS  KEPT  AT  THE  DOOR    231 

She  used  to  come  to  me  day  after  day,  and  I  used  to 
talk  to  her.  She  used  not  to  say  much.  Perhaps  she  did 
not  listen;  but  I  did  not  care  for  that.  On— and  on— 
and  on  I  would  go  with  my  prate  about  my  passion,  my 
wrongs,  and  despair;  and  untiring  as  my  complaints 
were,  still  more  constant  was  my  little  hearer's  compas- 
sion. Mamma's  shrill  voice  would  come  to  put  an  end  to 
our  conversation,  and  she  would  rise  up  with  an  "  Oh, 
bother!"  and  go  away:  but  the  next  day  the  good  girl 
was  sure  to  come  to  me  again,  when  we  would  have  an- 
other repetition  of  our  tragedy. 

I  dare  say  you  are  beginning  to  suppose  (what,  after 
all,  is  a  very  common  case,  and  certainly  no  conjuror  is 
wanted  to  make  the  guess)  that  out  of  all  this  crying  and 
sentimentality,  which  a  soft-hearted  old  fool  of  a  man 
poured  out  to  a  young  girl — out  of  all  this  whimpering 
and  pity,  something  which  is  said  to  be  akin  to  pity  might 
arise.  But  in  this,  my  good  madam,  you  are  utterly 
wrong.  Some  people  have  the  small-pox  twice;  I  do 
not.  In  my  case,  if  a  heart  is  broke,  it's  broke:  if  a 
flower  is  withered,  it's  withered.  If  I  choose  to  put  my 
grief  in  a  ridiculous  light,  why  not  ?  why  do  you  suppose 
I  am  going  to  make  a  tragedy  of  such  an  old  used-up, 
battered,  stale,  vulgar,  trivial  every-day  subject  as  a  jilt 
who  plays  with  a  man's  passion,  and  laughs  at  him,  and 
leaves  him?  Tragedy  indeed!  Oh,  yes!  poison— black- 
edged  note-paper — Waterloo  Bridge — one  more  unfor- 
tunate, and  so  forth!  No:  if  she  goes,  let  her  go! — si 
celeres  quatit  pennas,  I  pufF  the  what-d'ye-call-it  away! 
But  I'll  have  no  tragedy,  mind  you. 

Well,  it  must  be  confessed  that  a  man  desperately  in 
love  (as  I  fear  I  must  own  I  then  was,  and  a  good  deal 
cut  up  by  Glorvina's  conduct)  is  a  most  selfish  being: 
whilst  women  are  so  soft  and  unselfish  that  thev  can  for- 


232  LOVEL    THE   WIDOWER 

get  or  disguise  their  own  sorrows  for  a  while,  whilst  they 
minister  to  a  friend  in  affliction.  I  did  not  see,  though  I 
talked  with  her  daily,  on  my  return  from  that  accursed 
Dublin,  that  my  little  Elizabeth  was  pale  and  distraite^ 
and  sad,  and  silent.  She  would  sit  quite  dumb  whilst  I 
chattered,  her  hands  between  her  knees,  or  draw  one  of 
them  over  her  eyes.  She  would  say,  "Oh,  yes!  Poor 
fellow — poor  fellow  I"  now  and  again,  as  giving  a  mel- 
ancholy confirmation  of  my  dismal  stories;  but  mostly 
she  remained  quiet,  her  head  drooping  towards  the 
ground,  a  hand  to  her  chin,  her  feet  to  the  fender. 

I  was  one  day  harping  on  the  usual  string.  I  was 
telling  Elizabeth  how,  after  presents  had  been  accepted, 
after  letters  had  passed  between  us  (if  her  scrawl  could 
be  called  letters,  if  my  impassioned  song  could  be  so 
construed),  after  everything  but  the  actual  word  had 
passed  our  lips — I  was  telling  Elizabeth  how,  on  one  ac- 
cursed day,  Glorvina's  mother  greeted  me  on  my  arrival 
in  M-rr-n  Square,  by  sajang,  "  Dear,  dear  Mr.  Batche- 
lor,  we  look  on  you  quite  as  one  of  the  family!  Con- 
gratulate me — congratulate  my  child!  Dear  Tom  has 
got  his  appointment  as  Recorder  of  Tobago ;  and  it  is  to 
be  a  match  between  him  and  his  cousin  Glory." 

"His  cousin  What!"  I  shriek  with  a  maniac  laugh. 

"  My  poor  Glorvina !  Sure  the  children  have  been 
fond  of  each  other  ever  since  they  could  speak.  I  knew 
your  kind  heart  would  be  the  first  to  rejoice  in  their  hap- 
piness." 

And  so,  say  I — ending  the  story — I,  who  thought 
myself  loved,  was  left  without  a  pang  of  pity:  I,  who 
could  mention  a  hundred  reasons  why  I  thought  Glor- 
vina well  disposed  to  me,  was  told  she  regarded  me  as  an 
uncle!    Were  her  letters  such  as  nieces  write  ?    Who  ever 


MISS  PRIOR  IS  KEPT  AT  THE  DOOR    233 

heard  of  an  uncle  walking  round  Merrion  Square  for 
hours  of  a  rainy  night,  and  looking  up  to  a  bedroom  win- 
dow, because  his  niece,  forsooth,  was  behind  it?  I  had 
set  my  whole  heart  on  the  cast,  and  this  was  the  return 
I  got  for  it.  For  months  she  cajoles  me — her  eyes  fol- 
low me,  her  cursed  smiles  welcome  and  fascinate  me, 
and  at  a  moment,  at  the  beck  of  another — she  laughs  at 
me  and  leaves  me ! 

At  this,  my  little  pale  EHzabeth,  still  hanging  down, 
cries,  "Oh,  the  villain!  the  villain!"  and  sobs  so  that 
you  might  have  thought  her  little  heart  would  break. 

"  Nay,"  said  I,  "  my  dear,  Mr.  O'Dowd  is  no  villain. 
His  uncle.  Sir  Hector,  was  as  gallant  an  old  officer  as 
any  in  the  service.  His  aunt  was  a  Molloy,  of  Molloys-. 
town,  and  they  are  of  excellent  family,  though,  I  believe, 
of  embarrassed  circumstances;  and  young  Tom — " 

''To7n?"  cries  Elizabeth,  with  a  pale,  bewildered 
look.  "His  name  wasn't  Tom,  dear  Mr.  Batchelor;  his 
name  was  Woo-woo-illiam!"  and  the  tears  begin  again. 

Ah,  my  child!  my  child!  my  poor  young  creature! 
and  you,  too,  have  felt  the  infernal  stroke.  You,  too, 
have  passed  the  tossing  nights  of  pain — have  heard  the 
dreary  hours  toll — have  looked  at  the  cheerless  sunrise 
with  your  blank  sleepless  eyes — have  woke  out  of 
dreams,  mayhap,  in  which  the  beloved  one  was  smiling 
on  you,  whispering  love-words — oh!  how  sweet  and 
fondly  remembered!  What! — your  heart  has  been 
robbed,  too,  and  your  treasury  is  rifled  and  empty! — 
poor  girl!  And  I  looked  in  that  sad  face,  and  saw  no 
grief  there!  You  could  do  your  little  sweet  endeavour 
to  soothe  my  wounded  heart,  and  I  never  saw  yours  was 
bleeding!  Did  you  suffer  more  than  I  did,  my  poor 
little  maid?    I  hope  not.    Are  you  so  young,  and  is  all 


234  LOVEL   THE    WIDOWER 

the  flower  of  life  blighted  for  you?  the  cup  without  sa- 
vour, the  sun  blotted,  or  almost  invisible  over  your  head? 
The  truth  came  on  me  all  at  once:  I  felt  ashamed  that 
my  own  selfish  grief  should  have  made  me  blind  to  hers. 

^"What!"  said  I,  "my  poor  child?  Was  it  .  .  .  ?  " 
and  I  pointed  with  my  finger  downwards. 

She  nodded  her  poor  head. 

I  knew  it  was  the  lodger  who  had  taken  the  first  floor 
shortly  after  Slumley's  departure.  He  was  an  officer 
in  the  Bombay  Army.  He  had  had  the  lodgings  for 
three  months.  He  had  sailed  for  India  shortly  before  I 
returned  home  from  Dublin. 

Elizabeth  is  waiting  all  this  time— shall  she  come  in? 
Xo,  not  yet.  I  have  still  a  little  more  to  say  about  the 
Priors. 

You  understand  that  she  was  no  longer  Miss  Prior  of 
Beak  Street,  and  that  mansion,  even  at  the  time  of  which 
I  write,  had  been  long  handed  over  to  other  tenants. 
The  Captain  dead,  his  widow  with  many  tears  pressed 
me  to  remain  with  her,  and  I  did,  never  having  been  able 
to  resist  that  kind  of  appeal.  Her  statements  regarding 
her  affairs  were  not  strictly  correct. — Are  not  women 
sometimes  incorrect  about  money  matters?  A  landlord 
(not  unjustly  indignant)  quickly  handed  over  the  man- 
sion in  Beak  Street  to  other  tenants.  The  Queen's  taxes 
swooped  down  on  poor  Mrs.  Prior's  scanty  furniture — 
on  hers? — on  mine  likewise:  on  my  neatly -bound  college 
books,  emblazoned  with  the  effigy  of  Bonifacius,  our 
patron,  and  of  Bishop  Budgeon,  our  founder;  on  my 
elegant  Raphael  IMorghen  prints,  purchased  in  under- 
graduate days—  (ye  Powers!  what  did  make  us  boys  go 
tick  for  fifteen-guinea  proofs  of  Raphael,  Dying  Stags, 
Duke  of  Wellington  Banquets,  and  the  like?)  ;  my  har- 


MISS  PRIOR  IS  KEPT  AT  THE  DOOR    235 

monium,  at  which  some  one  has  warbled  songs  of  my 
composition —  (I  mean  the  words,  artfully  describing  my 
passion,  my  hopes,  or  my  despair)  ;  on  my  rich  set  of 
Bohemian  glass,  bought  on  the  Zeil,  Frankfort  O.  INI.; 
on  my  picture  of  my  father,  the  late  Captain  Batchelor 
(Hoppner),  R.  N.,  in  white  ducks,  and  a  telescope, 
pointing,  of  course,  to  a  tempest,  in  the  midst  of  which 
was  a  naval  engagement;  on  my  poor  mother's  minia- 
ture, by  old  Adam  Buck,  in  pencil  and  pink,  with  no 
waist  to  speak  of  at  all;  my  tea  and  cream  pots  (bul- 
lion ) ,  with  a  hundred  such  fond  knicknacks  as  decorate 
the  chamber  of  a  lonely  man.  I  found  all  these  house- 
hold treasures  in  possession  of  the  myrmidons  of  the  law, 
and  had  to  pay  the  Priors'  taxes  with  this  hand,  before  I 
could  be  redintegrated  in  my  own  property.  ]Mrs.  Prior 
could  only  pay  me  back  with  a  widow's  tears  and  bless- 
ings (Prior  having  quitted  a  world  where  he  had 
long  ceased  to  be  of  use  or  ornament) .  The  tears  and 
blessings,  I  say,  she  offered  me  freely,  and  they  were 
all  very  well.  But  why  go  on  tampering  with  the  tea- 
box,  madam?  Why  put  your  finger — your  finger? — 
your  whole  paw — in  the  jam-pot?  And  it  is  a  horrible 
fact  that  the  wine  and  spirit  bottles  were  just  as  leaky 
after  Prior's  decease  as  they  had  been  during  his  dis- 
reputable lifetime.  One  afternoon,  having  a  sudden  oc- 
casion to  return  to  my  lodgings,  I  found  my  wretched 
landlady  in  the  very  act  of  marauding  sherry.  She  gave 
an  hysterical  laugh,  and  then  burst  into  tears.  She  de- 
clared that  since  her  poor  Prior's  death  she  hardly  knew 
what  she  said  or  did.  She  may  have  been  incoherent; 
she  was;  but  she  certainly  spoke  truth  on  tJiis  occasion. 
I  am  speaking  lightly — flippantly,  if  you  please — 
about  this  old  Mrs.  Prior,  with  her  hard,  eager  smile,  her 


236  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

wizened  face,  her  frowning  look,  her  cruel  voice;  and 
yet,  goodness  knows,  I  could,  if  I  liked,  be  serious  as  a 
sermonizer.  Why,  this  woman  had  once  red  cheeks,  and 
was  well-looking  enough,  and  told  few  lies,  and  stole  no 
sherry,  and  felt  the  tender  passions  of  the  heart,  and  I 
dare  say  kissed  the  weak  old  beneficed  clergyman  her 
father  very  fondly  and  remorsefully  that  night  when  she 
took  leave  of  him  to  skip  round  to  the  back  garden-gate 
and  run  away  with  Mr.  Prior.  Maternal  instinct  she 
had,  for  she  nursed  her  young  as  best  she  could  from  her 
lean  breast,  and  went  about  hungrily,  robbing  and  pil- 
fering for  them.  On  Sundays  she  furbished  up  that 
threadbare  black  silk  gown  and  bonnet,  ironed  the  collar, 
and  clung  desperately  to  church.  She  had  a  feeble  pen- 
cil-drawing of  the  vicarage  in  Dorsetshire,  and  silhou- 
ettes of  her  father  and  mother,  which  were  hung  up  in 
the  lodgings  wherever  she  went.  She  migrated  much: 
wherever  she  went  she  fastened  on  the  gown  of  the  cler- 
gyman of  the  parish ;  spoke  of  her  dear  father  the  vicar, 
of  her  wealthy  and  gifted  brother  the  Master  of  Boni- 
face, with  a  reticence  which  implied  that  Dr.  Sargent 
might  do  more  for  his  poor  sister  and  her  family,  if  he 
would.  She  plumed  herself  (oh!  those  poor  moulting 
old  plumes!)  upon  belonging  to  the  clergy;  had  read  a 
good  deal  of  good  sound  old-fashioned  theology  in  early 
life,  and  wrote  a  noble  hand,  in  which  she  had  been  used 
to  copy  her  father's  sermons.  She  used  to  put  cases  of 
conscience,  to  present  her  humble  duty  to  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Green,  and  ask  explanation  of  such  and  such  a  passage 
of  his  admirable  sermon,  and  bring  the  subject  round  so 
as  to  be  reminded  of  certain  quotations  of  Hooker,  Bev- 
eridge,  Jeremy  Taylor.  I  think  she  had  an  old  common- 
place book  with  a  score  of  these  extracts,  and  she  worked 


MISS  PRIOR  IS  KEPT  AT  THE  DOOR    237 

them  in  very  amusingly  and  dexterously  into  her  con- 
versation. Green  would  be  interested:  perhaps  pretty 
young  Mrs.  Green  would  call,  secretly  rather  shocked  at 
the  coldness  of  old  Dr.  Brown,  the  rector,  about  Mrs. 
Prior.  Between  Green  and  Mrs.  Prior  money  transac- 
tions would  ensue:  Mrs.  Green's  visits  would  cease: 
Mrs.  Prior  was  an  expensive  woman  to  know.  I  remem- 
ber Pye  of  Maudlin,  just  before  he  "went  over,"  was 
perpetually  in  Mrs.  Prior's  back  parlour  with  little 
books,  pictures,  medals,  &c.  &c. — you  know.  They 
called  poor  Jack  a  Jesuit  at  Oxbridge;  but  one  year  at 
Rome  I  met  him  (with  a  half-crown  shaved  out  of  his 
head,  and  a  hat  as  big  as  Don  Basilio's)  ;  and  he  said, 
"  My  dear  Batchelor,  do  you  know  that  person  at  your 
lodgings?  I  think  she  was  an  artful  creature !  She  bor- 
rowed fourteen  pounds  of  me,  and  I  forget  how  much 
of— seven,  I  think — of  Barfoot,  of  Corpus,  just — just 
before  we  were  received.  And  I  believe  she  absolutely 
got  another  loan  from  Pummel,  to  be  able  to  get  out  of 
the  hands  of  us  Jesuits.  Are  you  going  to  hear  the  Car- 
dinal? Do — do  go  and  hear  him — everybody  does:  it's 
the  most  fashionable  thing  in  Rome."  And  from  this  I 
opine  that  there  are  slyboots  in  other  communions  besides 
that  of  Rome. 

Now  IMamma  Prior  had  not  been  unaware  of  the  love- 
passages  between  her  daughter  and  the  fugitive  Bombay 
captain.  Like  Ehzabeth,  she  called  Captain  Walking- 
ham  "  villain  "  readily  enough ;  but,  if  I  know  woman's 
nature  in  the  least  (and  I  don't),  the  old  schemer  had 
thrown  her  daughter  only  too  frequently  in  the  officer's 
way,  had  done  no  small  portion  of  the  flirting  herself, 
had  allowed  poor  Bessy  to  receive  presents  from  Captain 
Walkingham,  and  had  been  the  manager  and  directress 


238  LOVEL   THE    WIDOWER 

of  much  of  the  mischief  which  ensued.  You  see,  in  this 
humble  class  of  life,  unprincipled  mothers  will  coax  and 
wheedle  and  cajole  gentlemen  whom  they  suppose  to  be 
eligible,  in  order  to  procure  an  establishment  for  their 
darling  children !  What  the  Prioress  did  was  done  from 
the  best  motives  of  course.  "  Never — never  did  the  mon- 
ster see  Bessy  without  me,  or  one  or  two  of  her  brothers 
and  sisters,  and  Jack  and  dear  Ellen  are  as  sharp  chil- 
dren as  any  in  England!  "  protested  the  indignant  Mrs. 
Prior  to  me;  "and  if  one  of  my  boys  had  been  grown 
up,  Walkingham  never  would  have  dared  to  act  as  he  did 
— the  unprincipled  wretch!  My  poor  husband  would 
have  punished  the  villain  as  he  deserved ;  but  what  could 
he  do  in  his  shattered  state  of  health?  Oh!  you  men,— 
you  men,  ]Mr.  Batchelor!  how  unprincipled  you  are!  " 

"  Why,  my  good  Mrs.  Prior,"  said  I,  "  you  let  Eliza- 
beth come  to  my  room  often  enough." 

"  To  have  the  conversation  of  her  uncle's  friend,  of  an 
educated  man,  of  a  man  so  much  older  than  herself !  Of 
course,  dear  sir !  Would  not  a  mother  wish  every  advan- 
tage for  her  child  ?  and  whom  could  I  trust,  if  not  you, 
who  have  ever  been  such  a  friend  to  me  and  mine? "  asks 
Mrs.  Prior,  wiping  her  dry  eyes  with  the  corner  of  her 
handkerchief,  as  she  stands  by  my  fire,  my  monthly  bills 
in  hand, — written  in  her  neat  old-fashioned  writing,  and 
calculated  with  that  prodigal  liberality  which  she  always 
exercised  in  compiling  the  little  accounts  between  us. 
"  Why,  bless  me !  "  says  my  cousin,  little  Mrs.  Skinner, 
coming  to  see  me  once  when  I  was  unwell,  and  examin- 
ing one  of  the  just-mentioned  documents,— "  bless  me! 
Charles,  you  consume  more  tea  than  all  my  family, 
though  we  are  seven  in  the  parlour,  and  as  much  sugar 
and  butter, — well,  it's  no  wonder  you  are  bilious!" 


MISS  PRIOR  IS  KEPT  AT  THE  DOOR    239 

"  But  then,  my  dear,  I  like  my  tea  so  very  strong," 
said  I ;  "  and  you  take  yours  uncommonly  mild.  I  have 
remarked  it  at  your  parties." 

"  It's  a  shame  that  a  man  should  be  robbed  so,"  cried 
Mrs.  S. 

"How  kind  it  is  of  you  to  cry  thieves,  Flora!"  I 
reply. 

"  It's  my  duty,  Charles! "  exclaims  my  cousin.  "And 
I  should  like  to  know  who  that  great,  tall,  gawky,  red- 
haired  girl  in  the  passage  is!  " 

Ah  me!  the  name  of  the  only  woman  who  ever  had 
possession  of  this  heart  was  not  Elizabeth ;  though  I  own 
I  did  think  at  one  time  that  my  little  schemer  of  a  land- 
lady would  not  have  objected  if  I  had  proposed  to  make 
Miss  Prior  Mrs.  Batchelor.  And  it  is  not  only  the  poor 
and  needy  who  have  this  mania,  but  the  rich,  too.  In  the 
very  highest  circles,  as  I  am  informed  by  the  best  au- 
thorities, this  match-making  goes  on.  All  woman— wo- 
man!—  ah  wedded  wife! — ah  fond  mother  of  fair  daugh- 
ters !  how  strange  thy  passion  is  to  add  to  thy  titles  that 
of  mother-in-law!  I  am  told,  when  you  have  got  the 
title,  it  is  often  but  a  bitterness  and  a  disappointment. 
Very  likely  the  son-in-law  is  rude  to  you,  the  coarse,  un- 
grateful brute!  and  very  possibly  the  daughter  rebels, 
the  thankless  serpent !  And  yet  you  will  go  on  scheming : 
and  having  met  only  with  disappointment  from  Louisa 
and  her  husband,  you  will  try  and  get  one  for  Jemima, 
and  Maria,  and  down  even  to  little  Toddles  coming  out 
of  the  nursery  in  her  red  shoes !  When  you  see  her  with 
little  Tommy,  your  neighbour's  child,  fighting  over  the 
same  Noah's  ark,  or  clambering  on  the  same  rocking- 
horse,  I  make  no  doubt,  in  your  fond  silly  head,  you  are 
thinking,  "  Will  those  little  people  meet  some  twenty 


240  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

years  hence?"  And  you  give  Tommy  a  very  large  piece 
of  cake,  and  have  a  fine  present  for  him  on  the  Christmas 
tree — you  know  you  do,  though  he  is  but  a  rude,  noisy 
child,  and  has  already  beaten  Toddles,  and  taken  her  doll 
away  from  her,  and  made  her  cry.  I  remember,  when 
I  myself  was  suffering  from  the  conduct  of  a  young 
woman  in — in  a  capital  which  is  distinguished  b}''  a 
v^iceregal  court — and  from  her  heartlessness,  as  well 
as  that  of  her  relative,  who  I  once  thought  would  be 
my  mother-in-law — shrieking  out  to  a  friend  who  hap- 
pened to  be  spouting  some  lines  from  Tennyson's 
"Ulysses:" — "By  George!  Warrington,  I  have  no 
doubt  that  when  the  young  sirens  set  their  green 
caps  at  the  old  Greek  captain  and  his  crew,  waving  and 
beckoning  him  with  their  white  arms  and  glancing  smiles, 
and  wheedling  him  with  their  sweetest  pipes — I  make  no 
doubt,  sir,  that  the  mother  sirens  were  behind  the  rocks 
(with  their  dyed  fronts  and  cheeks  painted,  so  as  to  resist 
water),  and  calling  out — 'Now,  Haley  one,  my  child, 
that  air  from  the  Piratal  Now,  Glaukopis,  dear,  look 
well  at  that  old  gentleman  at  the  helm!  Bathykolpos, 
love,  there's  a  young  sailor  on  the  maintop,  who  will  tum- 
ble right  down  into  your  lap  if  you  beckon  him ! '  And 
so  on — and  so  on."  And  I  laughed  a  wild  shriek  of  de- 
spair. For  I,  too,  have  been  on  the  dangerous  island, 
and  come  away  thence,  mad,  furious,  wanting  a  strait- 
waistcoat. 

And  so,  when  a  white-armed  siren,  named  Glorvina, 
was  bedevilling  me  with  her  all  too  tempting  ogling  and 
singing,  I  did  not  see  at  the  time,  but  now  I  know,  that 
her  artful  mother  was  egging  that  artful  child  on. 

How,  when  the  Captain  died,  bailiffs  and  executions 
took  possession  of  his  premises,  I  have  told  in  a  previous 


MISS  PRIOR  IS  KEPT  AT  THE  DOOR    241 

page,  nor  do  I  care  to  enlarge  much  upon  the  odious 
theme.  I  think  the  baihff s  were  on  the  premises  before 
Prior's  exit :  but  he  did  not  know  of  their  presence.  If 
I  had  to  buy  them  out,  'twas  no  great  matter :  only  I  say 
it  was  hard  of  Mrs.  Prior  to  represent  me  in  the  char- 
acter of  Shylock  to  the  Master  of  Boniface.  Well — 
well!  I  suppose  there  are  other  gentlemen  besides  Mr. 
Charles  Batchelor  who  have  been  misrepresented  in  this 
life.  Sargent  and  I  made  up  matters  afterwards,  and 
Miss  Bessy  was  the  cause  of  our  coming  together  again. 
"  UjDon  my  word,  my  dear  Batchelor,"  says  he  one 
Christmas,  when  I  went  up  to  the  old  college,  "  I  did  not 
know  how  much  my — ahem! — my  family  was  obliged  to 
you!  My — ahem! — niece.  Miss  Prior,  has  informed  me 
of  various  acts  of — ahem! — generosity  which  you  showed 
to  my  poor  sister,  and  her  still  more  wretched  husband. 
You  got  my  second — ahem! — nephew — pardon  me  if  I 
forget  his  Christian  name — into  the  what-d'you-call'em 
Bluecoat  School;  you  have  been,  on  various  occasions,  of 
considerable  pecuniary  service  to  my  sister's  family.  A 
man  need  not  take  high  university  honours  to  have  a 
good— ahem!— heart;  and,  upon  my  word,  Batchelor,  I 
and  my — ahem! — wife  are  sincerely  obliged  to  you!  " 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Master,"  said  I,  "  there  is  a  point 
upon  which  you  ought  really  to  be  obliged  to  me,  and 
in  which  I  have  been  the  means  of  putting  money  into 
your  pocket  too." 

"  I  confess  I  fail  to  comprehend  you,"  says  the  Mas- 
ter, with  his  grandest  air. 

"  I  have  got  you  and  Mrs.  Sargent  a  very  good  gov- 
erness for  your  children,  at  the  very  smallest  remunera- 
tion," say  I. 

"Do  you  know  the  charges  that  unhappy  sister  of 


212  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

mine  and  her  family  have  put  me  to  abeady?  "  says  the 
JNIaster,  turning  as  red  as  his  hood. 

"  They  have  formed  the  frequent  subject  of  your  cou' 
versation,"  I  rephed.  "  You  have  had  Bessy  as  a  gov- 
erness  .  .  ." 

"A  nursery  governess— she  has  learned  Latin,  and  a 
great  deal  more  since  she  has  been  in  my  house ! "  cries 
the  Master. 

"A  nursery  governess  at  the  wages  of  a  housemaid," 
I  continued,  as  bold  as  Corinthian  brass. 

"Does  my  niece,  does  my— ahem!— children's  gov- 
erness, complain  of  my  treatment  in  my  college?  "  cries 
the  Master. 

"  My  dear  Master,"  I  asked,  "  you  don't  suppose  I 
would  have  listened  to  her  complaints,  or,  at  any  rate, 
have  repeated  them,  until  now  ?  " 

"And  why  now,  Batchelor,  I  should  like  to  know?" 
says  the  Master,  pacing  up  and  down  his  study  in  a 
fume,  under  the  portraits  of  Holy  Bonifacius,  Bishop 
Budgeon,  and  all  the  defunct  bigwigs  of  the  college. 
And  why  now,  Batchelor,  I  should  like  to  know?" 
says  he. 

"  Because — though  after  staying  with  you  for  three 
years,  and  having  improved  herself  greatly,  as  every 
woman  must  in  your  society,  my  dear  Master,  Miss  Prior 
is  worth  at  least  fifty  guineas  a  year  more  than  you  give 
her— I  would  not  have  had  her  speak  until  she  had  found 
a  better  place." 

"  You  mean  to  say  she  proposes  to  go  away? " 

"A  wealthy  friend  of  mine,  who  was  a  member  of  our 
college  by  the  way,  wants  a  nursery  governess,  and  I 
have  recommended  INIiss  Prior  to  him,  at  seventy  guineas 
a  year." 


MISS  PRIOR  IS  KEPT  AT  THE  DOOR    243 

"And  pray  who's  the  member  of  my  college  who  will 
give  my  niece  seventy  guineas?"  asks  the  blaster, 
fiercely. 

"  You  remember  Lovel,  the  gentleman-pensioner? " 

"  The  sugar-baking  man— the  man  who  took  you  out 
of  ja  .  .   ?" 

"  One  good  turn  deserves  another,"  says  I,  hastily. 
"  I  have  done  as  much  for  some  of  your  family,  Sar- 
gent! " 

The  red  Master,  who  had  been  rustling  up  and  down 
his  study  in  his  gown  and  bands,  stopped  in  his  walk  as 
if  I  had  struck  him.  He  looked  at  me.  He  turned  red- 
der than  ever.  He  drew  his  hand  over  his  eyes. 
"  Batchelor,"  says  he,  "  I  ask  your  pardon.  It  was  I  who 
forgot  myself— may  heaven  forgive  me!— forgot  how 
good  you  have  been  to  my  family,  to  my— ahem!— /m77i- 
hle  family,  and— and  how  devoutly  thankful  I  ought  to 
be  for  the  protection  which  they  have  found  in  you." 
His  voice  quite  fell  as  he  spoke :  and  of  course  any  little 
wrath  which  I  might  have  felt  was  disarmed  before  his 
contrition.  We  parted  the  best  friends.  He  not  only 
shook  hands  with  me  at  the  study-door,  but  he  actually 
followed  me  to  the  hall-door,  and  shook  hands  at  his 
lodge-porch,  suh  Jove,  in  the  quadrangle.  Huckles,  the 
tutor  (Highlow  Huckles  we  used  to  call  him  in  our 
time),  and  Botts  (Trumperian  professor),  who  hap- 
pened to  be  passing  through  the  court  at  the  time,  stood 
aghast  as  they  witnessed  the  phenomenon. 

"  I  say,  Batchelor,"  asks  Huckles,  "  have  you  been 
made  a  marquis  by  any  chance?  " 

"  Why  a  marquis,  Huckles? "  I  ask. 

"  Sargent  never  comes  to  his  lodge-door  with  any  man 
under  a  marquis,"  says  Huckles,  in  a  low  whisper. 


244  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

"  Or  a  pretty  woman,"  says  that  Botts  (he  will  have 
his  joke).  "  Batchelor,  my  elderly  Tiresias,  are  you 
turned  into  a  lovely  young  lady  pa?'  hasard?" 

"  Get  along,  you  absurd  Trumperian  professor!  "  say 
I.  But  the  circumstance  was  the  talk  not  only  in  Com- 
potation  Room  that  evening  over  our  wine,  but  of  the 
whole  college.  And  further,  events  happened  which 
made  each  man  look  at  his  neighbour  with  wonder.  For 
that  whole  term  Sargent  did  not  ask  our  nobleman  Lord 
Sackville  (Lord  Wigmore's  son)  to  the  lodge.  (Lord 
W.'s  father,  you  know.  Duff,  was  baker  to  the  college.) 
For  that  whole  term  he  was  rude  but  twice  to  Perks,  the 
junior  tutor,  and  then  only  in  a  very  mild  way :  and  what 
is  more,  he  gave  his  niece  a  present  of  a  gown,  of  his 
blessing,  of  a  kiss,  and  a  high  character,  when  she  went 
away; — and  promised  to  put  one  of  her  young  brothers 
to  school — which  promise,  I  need  not  say,  he  faithfully 
kept:  for  he  has  good  principles,  Sargent  has.  He  is 
rude :  he  is  ill-bred :  he  is  bumptious  beyond  almost  any 
man  I  ever  knew ;  he  is  spoiled  not  a  little  by  prosperity ; 
— but  he  is  magnanimous:  he  can  own  that  he  has  been 
in  the  wrong ;  and  oh  me !  what  a  quantity  of  Greek  he 
knows ! 

Although  my  late  friend  the  Captain  never  seemed  to 
do  aught  but  spend  the  family  money,  his  disreputable 
presence  somehow  acted  for  good  in  the  household. 
*'  My  dear  husband  kept  our  family  together,"  Mrs. 
Prior  said,  shaking  her  lean  head  under  her  meagre 
widow's  cap.  "  Heaven  knows  how  I  shall  provide  for 
these  lambs  now  he  is  gone."  Indeed,  it  was  not  until 
after  the  death  of  that  tipsy  shepherd  that  the  wolves  of 
the  law  came  down  upon  the  lambs — myself  included, 
who  have  passed  the  age  of  lambhood  and  mint  sauce  a 


MISS  PRIOR  IS  KEPT  AT  THE  DOOR    245 

long  time.     They  came  down  upon  our  fold  in  Beak 
Street,  I  say,  and  ravaged  it.    What  was  I  to  do?    Could 
I  leave  that  widow  and  children  in  their  distress?    I  was 
not  ignorant  of  misfortune,  and  knew  how  to  succour 
the  miserable.    Nay,  I  think,  the  little  excitement  atten- 
dant upon  the  seizure  of  my  goods,  &c.,  the  insolent  vul- 
garity of  the  low  persons  in  possession— with  one  of 
whom  I  was  very  near  coming  to  a  personal  encounter — 
and  other  incidents  which  occurred  in  the  bereft  house- 
hold, served  to  rouse  me,  and  dissipate  some  of  the  lan- 
guor and  misery  under  which  I  was  suffering  in  conse- 
quence of  ]Miss  Mulligan's  conduct  to  me.     I  know  I 
took  the  late   Captain  to  his   final  abode.     My  good 
friends  the  printers  of  the  Museum  took  one  of  his  boys 
into  their  counting-house.     A  blue  coat  and  a  pair  of 
yellow  stockings  were  procured  for  Augustus ;  and  see- 
ing the  Master's  children  walking  about  in  Boniface 
gardens  with  a  glum-looking  old  w  retch  of  a  nurse,  I  be- 
thought me  of  proposing  to  him  to  take  his  niece  Miss 
Prior — and,  heaven  be  good  to  me!  never  said  one  word 
to  her  uncle  about  Miss  Bellenden  and  the  Academy.    I 
dare  say  I  drew  a  number  of  long  bows  about  her.     I 
managed  about  the  bad  grammar  pretty  well,  by  lament- 
ing that  Elizabeth's  poor  mother  had  been  forced  to  al- 
low the  girl  to  keep  company  with  ill-educated  people: 
and  added,  that  she  could  not  fail  to  mend  her  English 
in  the  house  of  one  of  the  most  distinguished  scholars  in 
Europe,  and  one  of  the  best-bred  women.    I  did  say  so, 
upon  my  word,  looking  that  half-bred,  stuck-up  ]\Irs. 
Sargent  gravely  in  the  face ;  and  I  humbly  trust,  if  that 
bouncer  has  been  registered  against  me,  the  Recording 
Angel  will  be  pleased  to  consider  that  the  motive  was 
good,  though  the  statement  was  unjustifiable.     But  I 


246  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

don't  think  it  was  the  compliment:  I  think  it  was  the 
temptation  of  getting  a  governess  for  next  to  nothing 
that  operated  upon  Madam  Sargent.  And  so  Bessy- 
went  to  her  aunt,  partook  of  the  bread  of  dependence, 
and  drank  of  the  cup  of  humihation,  and  ate  the  pie  of 
humiht}^  and  brought  up  her  odious  httle  cousins  to  the 
best  of  her  small  power,  and  bowed  the  head  of  hypocrisy 
before  the  don  her  uncle,  and  the  pompous  little  upstart 
her  aunt.  She  the  best-bred  woman  in  England,  in- 
deed!    She,  the  little  vain  skinflint! 

Bessy's  mother  was  not  a  little  loth  to  part  wdth  the 
fifty  pounds  a  year  which  the  child  brought  home  from 
the  Academy;  but  her  departure  thence  was  inevitable. 
Some  quarrel  had  taken  place  there,  about  which  the  girl 
did  not  care  to  talk.  Some  rudeness  had  been  offered 
to  Miss  Bellenden,  to  which  Miss  Prior  was  determined 
not  to  submit :  or  was  it  that  she  wanted  to  go  away  from 
the  scenes  of  her  own  misery,  and  to  try  and  forget  that 
Indian  captain?  Come,  fellow-sufferer!  Come,  child  of 
misfortune,  come  hither!  Here  is  an  old  bachelor  who 
will  weep  with  thee  tear  for  tear ! 

I  protest  here  is  Miss  Prior  coming  into  the  room  at 
last.  A  pale  face,  a  tawny  head  of  hair  combed  back, 
under  a  black  cap :  a  pair  of  blue  spectacles,  as  I  live !  a 
tight  mourning  dress,  buttoned  up  to  her  white  throat; 
a  head  hung  meekly  down:  such  is  Miss  Prior.  She 
takes  my  hand  when  I  offer  it.  She  drops  me  a  demure 
little  curtsey,  and  answers  my  many  questions  with  hum- 
ble monosyllabic  replies.  She  appeals  constantly  to 
Lady  Baker  for  instruction,  or  for  confirmation  of  her 
statements.  What !  have  six  years  of  slavery  so  changed 
the  frank  daring  young  girl  whom  I  remember  in  Beak 
Street?    She  is  taller  and  stouter  than  she  was.     She  is 


MISS  PRIOR  IS  KEPT  AT  THE  DOOR    247 

awkward  and  high-shouldered,  but  surely  she  has  a  very 
fine  figure. 

"  Will  Miss  Cissy  and  Master  Popham  have  their  teas 
here  or  in  the  schoolroom? "  asks  Bedford,  the  butler,  of 
his  master.  Miss  Prior  looks  appealingly  to  Lady 
Baker. 

"  In  the  sch — "  Lady  Baker  is  beginning. 

"Here — here!"  bawl  out  the  children.  "  Much  better 
fun  down  here:  and  you'll  send  us  out  some  fruit  and 
things  from  dinner,  papa ! "  cries  Cissy. 

"  It's  time  to  dress  for  dinner,"  says  her  ladyship. 

"  Has  the  first  bell  rung? "  asks  Lovel. 

"  Yes,  the  first  bell  has  rung,  and  grandmamma  must 
go,  for  it  always  takes  her  a  precious  long  time  to  dress 
for  dinner!"  cries  Pop.  And,  indeed,  on  looking  at 
Lady  Baker,  the  connoisseur  might  perceive  that  her 
ladyship  was  a  highly  composite  person,  whose  charms 
required  very  much  care  and  arrangement.  There  are 
some  cracked  old  houses  where  the  painters  and  plumbers 
and  puttyers  are  always  at  work. 

"Have  the  goodness  to  ring  the  bell!"  she  says,  in  a 
majestic  manner,  to  Miss  Prior,  though  I  think  Lady 
Baker  herself  was  nearest. 

I  sprang  towards  the  bell  myself,  and  my  hand  meets 
Elizabeth's  there,  who  was  obeying  her  ladyship's  sum- 
mons, and  who  retreats,  making  me  the  demurest  curt- 
sey. At  the  summons,  enter  Bedford  the  butler  (he  was 
an  old  friend  of  mine  too)  and  young  Buttons,  the  page 
under  that  butler. 

Lady  Baker  points  to  a  heap  of  articles  on  a  table,  and 
says  to  Bedford :  "  If  you  please,  Bedford,  tell  my  man 
to  give  those  things  to  Pincott,  my  maid,  to  be  taken  to 
my  room." 


248  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

"  Shall  not  I  take  them  up,  dear  Lady  Baker? "  says 
Miss  Prior. 

But  Bedford,  looking  at  his  subordinate,  says: 
"  Thomas!  tell  Bulkeley,  her  ladyship's  man,  to  take  her 
ladyship's  things,  and  give  them  to  her  ladyship's  maid." 
There  was  a  tone  of  sarcasm,  even  of  parody,  in  Mon- 
sieur Bedford's  voice;  but  his  manner  was  profoundly 
grave  and  resj)ectful.  Drawing  up  her  person,  and  mak- 
ing a  motion,  I  don't  know  whether  of  politeness  or  de- 
fiance, exit  Lady  Baker,  followed  by  page,  bearing 
bandboxes,  shawls,  paper  parcels,  parasols— I  know  not 
what.  Dear  Popham  stands  on  his  head  as  grand- 
mamma leaves  the  room.  "Don't  be  vulgar!"  cries  lit- 
tle Cissy  (the  dear  child  is  always  acting  as  a  little 
Mentor  to  her  brother) .  "  I  shall,  if  I  Hke,"  says  Pop; 
and  he  makes  faces  at  her. 

"You  know  your  room.  Batch?"  asks  the  master  of 
the  house. 

"  Mr.  Batchelor's  old  room — always  has  the  blue 
room,"  says  Bedford,  looking  very  kindly  at  me. 

"  Give  us,"  cries  Lovel,  "  a  bottle  of  that  Sau — " 

"— terne  Mr.  Batchelor  used  to  like.  Chateau 
Yquem.  All  right!"  says  Mr.  Bedford.  "How  will 
you  have  the  turbot  done  you  brought  down? — Dutch 
sauce?— Make  lobster  into  salad?  Mr.  Bonnington  likes 
lobster-salad,"  says  Bedford.  Pop  is  winding  up  the 
butler's  back  at  this  time.  It  is  evident  Mr.  Bedford  is 
a  privileged  person  in  the  family.  As  he  had  entered  it 
on  my  nomination  several  years  ago,  and  had  been  ever 
since  the  faithful  valet,  butler,  and  major-domo  of 
Lovel,  Bedford  and  I  were  always  good  friends  when  we 
met. 

"  By  the  way,  Bedford,  why  wasn't  the  barouche  sent 


MISS  PRIOR  IS  KEPT  AT  THE  DOOR    249 

for  me  to  the  bridge? "  cries  Lovel.  "  I  had  to  walk  all 
the  way  home,  with  a  bat  and  stumps  for  Pop,  with  the 
basket  of  fish,  and  that  bandbox  with  my  lady's — " 

"He-he!"  grins  Bedford. 

"  '  He— he! '  Confound  you,  why  do  you  stand  grin- 
ning there?  Why  didn't  I  have  the  carriage,  I  say?" 
bawls  the  master  of  the  house. 

"  You  know,  sir,"  says  Bedford.  "  She  had  the  car- 
riage." And  he  indicated  the  door  through  which  Lady 
Baker  had  just  retreated. 

"Then  why  didn't  I  have  the  phaeton?"  asks  Bed- 
ford's master. 

"  Your  Ma  and  Mr.  Bonnington  had  the  phaeton." 

"And  why  shouldn't  they,  pray?  Mr.  Bonnington  is 
lame:  I'm  at  my  business  all  day.  I  should  like  to  know 
why  they  shouldn't  have  the  phaeton?"  says  Lovel,  ap- 
pealing to  me.  As  we  had  been  sitting  talking  together 
previous  to  Miss  Prior's  appearance.  Lady  Baker  had 
said  to  Lovel,  "  Your  mother  and  JNIr.  Bonnington  are 
coming  to  dinner  of  course,  Frederick? "  and  Lovel  had 
said,  "  Of  course  they  are,"  with  a  peevish  bluster, 
whereof  I  now  began  to  understand  the  meaning.  The 
fact  was,  these  two  women  were  fighting  for  the  posses- 
sion of  this  child ;  but  who  was  the  Solomon  to  say  which 
should  have  him?  Not  I.  Nenni.  I  put  mj^  oar  in  no 
man's  boat.  Give  me  an  easy  life,  my  dear  friends,  and 
row  me  gently  over. 

"  You  had  better  go  and  dress,"  says  Bedford  sternly, 
looking  at  his  master;  "  the  first  bell  has  rung  this  quar- 
ter of  an  hour.    Will  you  have  some  '34?" 

Lovel  started  up;  he  looked  at  the  clock.  "You  are 
all  ready,  Batch,  I  see.  I  hope  you  are  going  to  stay 
some  time,  ain't  you  ? "     And  he  disappeared  to  array 


250  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

himself  in  his  sables  and  starch.  I  was  thus  alone  with 
JNIiss  Prior  and  her  young  charges,  who  resumed 
straightway  their  infantine  gambols  and  quarrels. 

"  JMy  dear  Bessy! "  I  cry,  holding  out  both  hands,  *'  I 
am  heartily  glad  to — " 

"  Ne  m'appelez  que  de  mon  nom  paternel  devant  tout 
ce  monde  s'il  vous  plait,  mon  cher  ami,  mon  bon  protec- 
teur!"  she  says,  hastily,  in  very  good  French,  folding 
her  hands  and  making  a  curtsey. 

"  Oui,  oui,  oui!  Parlez-vous  Fran9ais?  J'aime,  tu 
aimes,  il  aime ! "  cries  out  dear  Master  Popham.  "  What 
are  you  talking  about?  Here's  the  phaeton!"  and  the 
young  innocent  dashes  through  the  open  window  on  to 
the  lawn,  whither  he  is  followed  by  his  sister,  and  where 
we  see  the  carriage  containing  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bonnington 
rolling  over  the  smooth  walk. 

Bessy  advances  towards  me,  and  gives  me  readily 
enough  now  the  hand  she  had  refused  anon. 

"  I  never  thought  you  would  have  refused  it,  Bessy," 
said  I. 

"Refuse  it  to  the  best  friend  I  ever  had!"  she  says, 
pressing  my  hand.  "Ah,  dear  Mr.  Batchelor,  what  an 
ungrateful  wretch  I  should  be,  if  I  did! " 

"Let  me  see  your  eyes.  Why  do  wear  spectacles? 
You  never  wore  them  in  Beak  Street,"  I  say.  You  see 
I  was  very  fond  of  the  child.  She  had  wound  herself 
around  me  in  a  thousand  fond  ways.  Owing  to  a  certain 
Person's  conduct  my  heart  may  be  a  ruin — a  Persepolis, 
sir — a  perfect  Tadmor.  But  what  then?  May  not  a 
traveller  rest  under  its  shattered  columns?  May  not  an 
Arab  maid  repose  there  till  the  morning  dawns  and  the 
caravan  passes  on?  Yes,  my  heart  is  a  Palmyra,  and 
once  a  Queen  inhabited  me   (O  Zenobia!  Zenobia!  to 


Bessy's  Spectacles 


MISS  PRIOR  IS  KEPT  AT  THE  DOOR    251 

think  thou  should'st  have  been  led  away  captive  by 
an  O'D— !)  Now,  I  am  alone,  alone  in  the  solitary 
wilderness.  Nevertheless,  if  a  stranger  comes  to  me 
I  have  a  spring  for  his  weary  feet,  I  will  give  him  the 
shelter  of  my  shade.  Rest  thy  cheek  awhile,  young 
maiden,  on  my  marble— then  go  thy  ways  and  leave 
me. 

This  I  thought,  or  something  to  this  effect,  as  in  reply 
to  my  remark,  "  Let  me  see  your  eyes,"  Bessy  took  off 
her  spectacles,  and  I  took  them  up  and  looked  at  her. 
Why  didn't  I  say  to  her,  "  My  dear  brave  Elizabeth!  as 
I  look  in  your  face,  I  see  you  have  had  an  awful  deal  of 
suffering.  Your  eyes  are  inscrutably  sad.  We  who  are 
initiated,  know  the  members  of  our  Community  of  Sor- 
row. We  have  both  been  wrecked  in  different  ships,  and 
been  cast  on  this  shore.  Let  us  go  hand-in-hand,  and 
find  a  cave  and  a  shelter  somewhere  together?"  I  say, 
why  didn't  I  say  this  to  her?  She  would  have  come,  I 
feel  sure  she  would.  We  would  have  been  semi- 
attached  as  it  were.  We  would  have  locked  up  that 
room  in  either  heart  where  the  skeleton  was,  and  said  no- 
thing about  it,  and  pulled  down  the  party-wall  and  taken 
our  mild  tea  in  the  garden.  I  live  in  Pump  Court  now. 
It  would  have  been  better  than  this  dingy  loneliness  and 
a  snuffy  laundress  who  bullies  me.  But  for  Bessy? 
Well— well,  perhaps  better  for  her  too. 

I  remember  these  thoughts  rushing  through  my  mind 
whilst  I  held  the  spectacles.  What  a  number  of  other 
things  too  ?  I  remember  two  canaries  making  a  tremen- 
dous concert  in  their  cage.  I  remember  the  voices  of  the 
two  children  quarrelling  on  the  lawn,  the  sound  of  the 
carriage-wheels  grinding  over  the  gravel;  and  then  of 
a  little  old  familiar  cracked  voice  in  my  ear,  with  a  "  La, 


252  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

Mr.  Batchelor!  are  you  here? "  And  a  sly  face  looks  up 
at  me  from  under  an  old  bonnet. 

"  It  is  mamma,"  says  Bessy. 

"And  I'm  come  to  tea  with  Elizabeth  and  the  dear 
children ;  and  while  you  are  at  dinner,  dear  Mr.  Batch- 
elor, thankful— thankful  for  all  mercies !  And,  dear  me ! 
here  is  Mrs.  Bonnington,  I  do  declare!  Dear  madam, 
how  well  you  look — not  twenty,  I  declare!  And  dear 
Mr.  Bonnington!  Oh,  sir!  let  me — let  me,  I  must  press 
your  hand.  What  a  sermon  last  Sunday!  All  Putney 
was  in  tears!" 

And  the  little  woman,  flinging  out  her  lean  arms, 
seizes  portly  JNIr.  Bonnington's  fat  hand:  as  he  and  kind 
JNIrs.  Bonnington  enter  at  the  open  casement.  The  little 
woman  seems  inclined  to  do  the  honours  of  the  house. 
"And  won't  you  go  upstairs,  and  put  on  your  cap  ?  Dear 
me,  what  a  lovely  ribbon !  How  blue  does  become  Mrs. 
Bonnington!  I  always  say  so  to  Elizabeth,"  she  cries, 
peeping  into  a  little  packet  which  ]\Irs.  Bonnington  bears 
in  her  hand.  After  exchanging  friendly  words  and 
greetings  with  me,  that  lady  retires  to  put  the  lovely  cap 
on,  followed  by  her  little  jackal  of  an  aide-de-camp. 
The  portly  clergyman  surveys  his  pleased  person  in  the 
spacious  mirror.  "  Your  things  are  in  your  old  room — 
like  to  go  in,  and  brush  up  a  bit?  "  whispers  Bedford  to 
me.  I  am  obliged  to  go,  you  see,  though,  for  my  part,  I 
had  thought,  until  Bedford  spoke,  that  the  ride  on  the 
top  of  the  Putney  omnibus  had  left  me  without  any  need 
of  brushing;  having  aired  my  clothes,  and  given  my 
young  cheek  a  fresh  and  agreeable  bloom. 

My  old  room,  as  Bedford  calls  it,  was  that  snug  apart- 
ment communicating  by  double  doors  with  the  drawing- 


MISS  PRIOR  IS  KEPT  AT  THE  DOOR    253 

room,  and  whence  you  can  walk  on  to  the  lawn  out  of 
the  windows. 

"  Here's  your  books,  here's  your  writing-paper,"  says 
Bedford,  leading  the  way  into  the  chamber.  "  Does  sore 
eyes  good  to  see  you  down  here  again,  sir.  You  may 
smoke  now.  Clarence  Baker  smokes  when  he  comes. 
Go  and  get  some  of  that  wine  you  like  for  dinner."  And 
the  good  fellow's  eyes  beam  kindness  upon  me  as  he  nods 
his  head,  and  departs  to  superintend  the  duties  of  his 
table.  Of  course  you  understand  that  this  Bedford  was 
my  young  printer's  boy  of  former  days.  What  a  queer 
fellow!  I  had  not  only  been  kind  to  him,  but  he  was 
grateful. 


CHAPTER    III 


IN    WHICH    I    PLAY   THE    SPY 

"p^  HE  room  to  which 
Bedford  conduct- 
ed me  I  hold  to 
be  the  very  pleas- 
antest  chamber  in 
all  the  mansion 
of  Shrublands. 
To  lie  on  that 
comfortable,  cool 
bachelor's  bed 
there,  and  see  the 
birds  hopping 
about  on  the 
lawn ;  to  peep  out 
of  the  French 
window  at  early 
morning,  inhale 
the  sweet  air, 
mark  the  dewy  bloom  on  the  grass,  listen  to  the  little 
warblers  performing  their  chorus,  step  forth  in  your 
dressing-gown  and  slippers,  pick  a  strawberry  from 
the  bed,  or  an  apricot  in  its  season;  blow  one,  two, 
three,  just  half-a-dozen  puffs  of  a  cigarette;  hear  the 
venerable  towers  of  Putney  toll  the  hour  of  six  (three 
hours  from  breakfast,  by  consequence),  and  pop  back 

254 


IN  WHICH  I  PLAY  THE  SPY        255 

into  bed  again  with  a  favourite  novel,  or  review,  to  set 
you  off  (you  see  I  am  not  malicious,  or  I  could  easily 
insert  here  the  name  of  some  twaddler  against  whom  I 
have  a  grudgekin)  :  to  pop  back  into  bed  again,  I  say, 
with  a  book  which  sets  you  oif  into  that  dear,  invaluable 
second  sleep,  by  which  health,  spirits,  appetite  are  so  pro- 
digiously improved:— all  these  I  hold  to  be  most  cheer- 
ful and  harmless  pleasures,  and  have  partaken  of  them 
often  at  Shrublands  with  a  grateful  heart.  That  heart 
may  have  had  its  griefs,  but  is  yet  susceptible  of 
enjoyment  and  consolation.  That  bosom  may  have  been 
lacerated,  but  is  not  therefore  and  henceforward  a 
stranger  to  comfort.  After  a  certain  affair  in  Dublin 
— nay,  very  soon  after,  three  months  after — I  recollect 
remarking  to  myself:  "  Well,  thank  my  stars,  I  still  have 
a  relish  for  '34  claret."  Once  at  Shrublands  I  heard 
steps  pacing  overhead  at  night,  and  the  feeble  but  con- 
tinued wail  of  an  infant.  I  wakened  from  my  sleep,  was 
sulky,  but  turned  and  slept  again.  Biddlecombe  the  bar- 
rister I  knew  was  the  occupant  of  the  upper  chamber. 
He  came  down  the  next  morning  looking  wretchedly 
yellow  about  the  cheeks,  and  livid  round  the  eyes.  His 
teething  infant  had  kept  him  on  the  march  all  night,  and 
Mrs.  Biddlecombe,  I  am  told,  scolds  him  frightfully  be- 
sides. He  munched  a  shred  of  toast,  and  was  off  by  the 
omnibus  to  chambers.  I  chipped  a  second  egg;  I  may 
have  tried  one  or  two  other  nice  little  things  on  the  table 
( Strasbourg  pate  I  know  I  never  can  resist,  and  am  con- 
vinced it  is  perfectly  wholesome).  I  could  see  my  own 
sweet  face  in  the  mirror  opposite,  and  my  gills  were  as 
rosy  as  any  broiled  salmon.  "Well— well!"  I  thought, 
as  the  barrister  disappeared  on  the  roof  of  the  coach,  "  he 
has  domus  and  placens  uxor— hut  is  she  placens?    Pla- 


256  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

cetne  to  walk  about  all  night  with  a  roaring  baby?  Is  it 
pleasing  to  go  to  bed  after  a  long  hard  day's  work,  and 
have  your  wife  nagnagging  you  because  she  has  not 
been  invited  to  the  Lady  Chancelloress's  soiree,  or  what 
not?  Suppose  the  Glorvina  whom  you  loved  so  had  been 
yours?  Her  eyebrows  looked  as  if  they  could  scowl,  her 
eyes  as  if  they  could  flash  with  anger.  Remember  what 
a  slap  she  gave  the  little  knife-boy  for  upsetting  the  but- 
ter-boat over  her  tabinet.  Suppose  parvuliis  aula,  a 
little  Batchelor  your  son,  who  had  the  toothache  all  night 
in  your  bedroom?"  These  thoughts  passed  rapidly 
through  my  mind  as  I  helped  myself  to  the  comfortable 
meal  before  me.  "  I  say,  what  a  lot  of  muffins  you're 
eating!"  cried  innocent  Master  Lovel.  Now  the  mar- 
ried, the  wealthy,  the  prosperous  Biddlecombe  only  took 
his  wretched  scrap  of  dry  toast.  "Aha!"  you  say, 
"  this  man  is  consohng  himself  after  his  misfortune."  O 
churl!  and  do  you  grudge  me  consolation?  "Thank 
you,  dear  Miss  Prior.  Another  cup,  and  plenty  of 
cream,  if  you  please."  Of  course.  Lady  Baker  was  not 
at  table  when  I  said,  "  Dear  Miss  Prior,"  at  breakfast. 
Before  her  ladyship  I  was  as  mum  as  a  mouse.  Ehza- 
beth  found  occasion  to  whisper  to  me  during  the  day, 
in  her  demure  way:  "  This  is  a  very  rare  occasion.    Lady 

B never  allows  me  to  breakfast  alone  with   Mr. 

Lovel,  but  has  taken  her  extra  nap,  I  suppose,  because 
you  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Biddlecombe  were  here." 

Now  it  may  be  that  one  of  the  double  doors  of  the 
room  which  I  inhabited  was  occasionally  open,  and  that 
Mr.  Batchelor's  eyes  and  ears  are  uncommonly  quick, 
and  note  a  number  of  things  which  less  observant  per- 
sons would  never  regard  or  discover;  but  out  of  tliis 
room,  which  I  occupied  for  some  few  days,  now  and  sub- 


IN  WHICH  I  PLAY  THE   SPY        257 

sequently,  I  looked  forth  as  from  a  little  ambush  upon 
the  proceedings  of  the  house,  and  got  a  queer  little  in- 
sight into  the  history  and  characters  of  the  personages 
round  about  me.  The  two  grandmothers  of  Lovel's  chil- 
dren were  domineering  over  that  easy  gentleman,  as 
women — not  grandmothers  merely,  but  sisters,  wives, 
aunts,  daughters,  when  the  chance  is  given  them — will 
domineer.  Ah!  Glorvina,  what  a  grey  mare  you  might 
have  become  had  you  chosen  Mr.  Batchelor  for  your  con- 
sort !  ( But  this  I  only  remark  with  a  parenthetic  sigh. ) 
The  two  children  had  taken  each  the  side  of  a  grand- 
mamma, and  whilst  Master  Pop  was  declared  by  his  ma- 
ternal grandmother  to  be  a  Baker  all  over,  and  taught 
to  despise  sugar-baking  and  trade,  little  Cecilia  was  Mrs. 
Bonnington's  favourite,  repeated  Watts's  hymns  with 
fervent  precocity;  declared  that  she  would  marry  none 
but  a  clergyman;  preached  infantine  sermons  to  her 
brother  and  maid  about  worldliness;  and  somewhat 
wearied  me,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  by  the  intense  self- 
respect  with  which  she  regarded  her  own  virtues.  The 
old  ladies  had  that  love  for  each  other,  which  one  may 
imagine  that  their  relative  positions  would  engender. 
Over  the  bleeding  and  helpless  bodies  of  Lovel  and  his 
worthy  and  kind  stepfather,  JNIr.  Bonnington,  they  skir- 
mished, and  fired  shots  at  each  other.     Lady  B 

would  give  hints  about  second  marriages,  and  second 
families,  and  so  forth,  which  of  course  made  ]Mrs.  Bon- 
nington wince.     Mrs.  B had  the  better  of  Lady 

Baker,  in  consequence  of  the  latter's  notorious  pecuniary 
irregularities.  She  had  never  had  recourse  to  her  son's 
purse,  she  could  thank  heaven.  She  w^as  not  afraid  of 
meeting  any  tradesman  in  Putney  or  London:  she  had 
never  been  ordered  out  of  the  house  in  the  late  Cecilia's 


258  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

lifetime:  she  could  go  to  Boulogne  and  enjoy  the  fresh 
air  there.  This  was  the  terrific  whip  she  had  over  Baker. 
Lady  B ,  I  regret  to  say,  in  consequence  of  the  fail- 
ure of  remittances,  had  been  locked  up  in  prison,  just  at 
a  time  when  she  was  in  a  state  of  violent  quarrel  with  her 
late  daughter,  and  good  Mr.  Bonnington  had  helped  her 
out  of  durance.  How  did  I  know  this?  Bedford, 
Lovel's  factotum,  told  me:  and  how  the  old  ladies  were 
fighting  like  two  cats. 

There  was  one  point  on  which  the  two  ladies  agreed. 
A  very  wealthy  widower,  young  still,  good-looking,  and 
good-tempered,  we  know  can  sometimes  find  a  dear  wo- 
man to  console  his  loneliness,  and  protect  his  motherless 
children.  From  the  neighbouring  Heath,  from  Wim- 
bledon, Roehampton,  Barnes,  Mortlake,  Richmond, 
Esher,  Walton,  Windsor,  nay,  Reading,  Bath,  Exeter, 
and  Penzance  itself,  or  from  any  other  quarter  of  Brit- 
ain, over  which  your  fancy  may  please  to  travel,  families 
would  have  come  ready  with  dear  young  girls  to  take 
charge  of  that  man's  future  happiness;  but  it  is  a  fact 
that  these  two  dragons  kept  all  women  oiF  from  their 
ward.  An  unmarried  woman,  with  decent  good  looks, 
was  scarce  ever  allowed  to  enter  Shrublands  gate.  If 
such  an  one  appeared,  Lovel's  two  mothers  sallied  out, 
and  crunched  her  hapless  bones.  Once  or  twice  he  dared 
to  dine  with  his  neighbours,  but  the  ladies  led  him  such 
a  life  that  the  poor  creature  gave  up  the  practice,  and 
faintly  announced  his  preference  for  home.  "  My  dear 
Batch,"  says  he,  "  what  do  I  care  for  the  dinners  of  the 
people  round  about?  Plas  any  one  of  them  got  a  better 
cook  or  better  Mine  than  mine?  When  I  come  home  from 
business,  it  is  an  intolerable  nuisance  to  have  to  dress  and 
go  out  seven  or  eight  miles  to  cold  entrees,  and  loaded 


IN  WHICH  I  PLAY  THE  SPY        259 

claret,  and  sweet  port.  I  can't  stand  it,  sir.  I  won't 
stand  it "  (and  he  stamps  his  foot  in  a  resolute  manner) . 
"  Give  me  an  easy  life,  a  wine-merchant  I  can  trust,  and 
my  own  friends,  by  my  own  fireside.  Shall  we  have 
some  more?  We  can  manage  another  bottle  between  us 
three,  Mr.  Bonnington?  " 

"  Well,"  says  Mr.  Bonnington,  winking  at  the  ruby 
goblet,  "  I  am  sure  I  have  no  objection,  Frederick,  to 
another  bo — " 

"  CoiFee  is  served,  sir,"  cries  Bedford,  entering. 

"  Well — well,  perhaps  we  have  had  enough,"  says 
worthy  Bonnington. 

"  We  have  had  enough;  we  all  drink  too  much,"  says 
Lovel,  briskly.    "  Come  in  to  coffee." 

We  go  to  the  drawing-room.  Fred  and  I,  and  the  two 
ladies,  sit  down  to  a  rubber,  whilst  Miss  Prior  plays  a 
piece  of  Beethoven  to  a  slight  warbling  accompaniment 
from  Mr.  Bonnington's  handsome  nose,  who  has  fallen 
asleep  over  the  newspaper.  During  our  play,  Bessy 
glides  out  of  the  room — a  grey  shadow.  Bonnington 
wakens  up  when  the  tray  is  brought  in.  Lady  Baker 
likes  that  good  old  custom :  it  was  always  the  fashion  at 
the  Castle,  and  she  takes  a  good  glass  of  negus  too ;  and 
so  do  we  all;  and  the  conversation  is  pretty  merry,  and 
Fred  Lovel  hopes  I  shall  sleep  better  to-night,  and  is 
very  facetious  about  poor  Biddlecombe,  and  the  way  in 
which  that  eminent  Q.C.  is  henpecked  by  his  wife. 

From  my  bachelor's  room,  then,  on  the  ground-floor; 
or  from  my  solitary  walks  in  the  garden,  whence  I  could 
oversee  many  things  in  the  house;  or  from  Bedford's 
communications  to  me,  which  were  very  friendly,  cu- 
rious, and  unreserved;  or  from  my  own  observation, 
which  I  promise  you  can  see  as  far  into  the  millstones  of 


260  LOVEL    THE    WIDOWER 

life  as  most  folks',  I  grew  to  find  the  mysteries  of  Shi-ub- 
lands  no  longer  mysterious  to  me;  and,  like  another 
Diahlc  BoitciuT,  had  the  roofs  of  a  pretty  nmnber  of  the 
Shrublands  rooms  taken  off  for  me. 

For  instance,  on  that  very  first  day  of  my  stay,  whilst 
the  family  were  attiring  themselves  for  dinner,  I  chanced 
to  find  two  secret  cupboards  of  the  house  unlocked,  and 
the  contents  unveiled  to  me.  Pinhorn,  the  children's 
maid,  a  giddy  little  flirting  thing  in  a  pink  ribbon, 
brought  some  articles  of  the  toilette  into  any  worship's 
apartment,  and  as  she  retired  did  not  shut  the  door  be- 
hind her.  I  might  have  thought  that  pert  little  head  had 
never  been  made  to  ache  by  any  care ;  but  ah !  black  care 
sits  behind  the  horseman  as  Horace  remarks,  and  not 
onty  behind  the  horseman,  but  behind  the  footman ;  and 
not  only  on  the  footman,  but  on  the  buxom  shoulders  of 
the  lady's-maid.  So  with  Pinhorn.  You  surely  have  re- 
marked respecting  domestic  servants  that  they  address 
you  in  a  tone  utterly  affected  and  unnatural— adopting, 
when  they  are  amongst  each  other,  voices  and  gestures 
entirely  different  to  those  which  their  employers  see  and 
hear.  Now,  this  little  Pinhorn,  in  her  occasional  inter- 
course with  j^our  humble  servant,  had  a  brisk,  quick,  flut- 
tering toss  of  the  head,  and  a  frisky  manner,  no  doubt 
capable  of  charming  some  persons.  As  for  me,  ancil- 
lary allurements  have,  I  own,  had  but  small  temptations. 
If  Venus  brought  me  a  bedroom  candle  and  a  jug  of  hot 
water,  I  should  give  her  sixpence,  and  no  more.  Having, 
you  see,  given  my  all  to  one  wom — Psha!  never  mind 
that  old  story.— Well,  I  dare  say  this  httle  creature  may 
have  been  a  flirt,  but  I  took  no  more  notice  of  her  than 
if  she  had  been  a  coal-scuttle. 

Now,  suppose  she  was  a  flirt.    Suppose,  under  a  mask 


IN  WHICH  I  PLAY  THE   SPY        261 

of  levity,  she  hid  a  profound  sorrow.  Do  you  suppose 
she  was  the  first  woman  who  ever  has  done  so?  Do  you 
suppose  because  she  had  fifteen  pounds  a  year,  her  tea, 
sugar,  and  beer,  and  told  fibs  to  her  masters  and  mis- 
tresses, she  had  not  a  heart?  She  went  out  of  the  room, 
absolutely  coaxing  and  leering  at  me  as  she  departed, 
with  a  great  counterpane  over  her  arm;  but  in  the  next 
apartment  I  heard  her  voice  quite  changed,  and  another 
changed  voice  too — though  not  so  much  altered — inter- 
rogating her.  ]My  friend  Dick  Bedford's  voice,  in  ad- 
dressing those  whom  Fortune  had  pleased  to  make  his 
superiors,  was  gruff  and  brief.  Pie  seemed  to  be  anxious 
to  deliver  himself  of  his  speech  to  you  as  quickly  as  pos- 
sible; and  his  tone  always  seemed  to  hint,  "There — 
there  is  my  message,  and  I  have  delivered  it;  but  you 
know  perfectly  well  that  I  am  as  good  as  you."  And 
so  he  was,  and  so  I  always  admitted :  so  even  the  trem- 
bling, believing,  flustering,  suspicious  Ladj^  Baker  her- 
self admitted,  when  she  came  into  communication  with 
this  man.  I  have  thought  of  this  little  Dick  as  of  Swift 
at  Sheen  hard  by,  with  Sir  William  Temple:  or  Spar- 
tacus  when  he  was  as  yet  the  servant  of  the  fortunate 
Roman  gentleman  who  owned  him.  Now  if  Dick  w^as 
intelligent,  obedient,  useful,  only  not  rebellious,  with 
his  superiors,  I  should  fancy  that  amongst  his  equals  he 
was  by  no  means  pleasant  company,  and  that  most  of 
them  hated  him  for  his  arrogance,  his  honesty,  and  his 
scorn  of  them  all. 

But  women  do  not  always  hate  a  man  for  scorning  and 
despising  them.  Women  do  not  revolt  at  the  rudeness 
and  arrogance  of  us  their  natural  superiors.  Women,  if 
properly  trained,  come  down  to  heel  at  the  master's  bid- 
ding, and  lick  the  hand  that  has  been  often  raised  to  hit 


262  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

them.  I  do  not  say  the  brave  Httle  Dick  Bedford  ever 
raised  an  actual  hand  to  this  poor  serving-girl,  but  his 
tongue  whipped  her,  his  behaviour  trampled  on  her,  and 
she  cried,  and  came  to  him  whenever  he  lifted  a  finger. 
Psha!  Don't  tell  me.  If  you  want  a  quiet,  contented, 
orderly  home,  and  things  comfortable  about  you,  that  is 
the  way  you  must  manage  your  women. 

Well,  Bedford  happens  to  be  in  the  next  room.  It  is 
the  morning-room  at  Shrublands.  You  enter  the  dining- 
room  from  it,  and  they  are  in  the  habit  of  laying  out  the 
dessert  there,  before  taking  it  in  for  dinner.  Bedford  is 
laying  out  his  dessert  as  Pinhorn  enters  from  my  cham- 
ber, and  he  begins  upon  her  with  a  sarcastic  sort  of  grunt, 
and  a  "  Ho!  suppose  you've  been  making  up  to  B.,  have 
you? " 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Bedford,  you  know  very  well  who  it  is  I 
cares  for! "  she  says,  with  a  sigh. 

"Bother!"  Mr.  B.  remarks. 

*'  Well,  Richard,  then! "  (here  she  weeps.) 

"Leave  go  my  'and!— leave  go  my  a-hand,  I  say!" 
(What  could  she  have  been  doing  to  cause  this  excla- 
mation?) 

"  Oh,  Richard,  it's  not  your  ^and  I  want— it's  j^our 
ah-ah-art,  Richard!" 

"  Mary  Pinhorn,"  exclaims  the  other,  "  what's  the  use 
of  going  on  with  this  game?  You  know  we  couldn't  be 
a-happy  together— you  know  your  ideers  ain't  no  good, 
Mary.  It  ain't  your  fault.  I  don't  blame  you  for  it, 
my  dear.  Some  people  are  born  clever,  some  are  born 
tall:  I  ain't  tall." 

"  Oh,  you're  tall  enough  for  me,  Richard! " 

Here  Richard  again  found  occasion  to  cry  out: 
''Don't,  I  say!    Suppose  Baker  was  to  come  in  and  find 


IN  WHICH  I  PLAY  THE  SPY        263 

you  squeezing  of  my  hand  in  this  way  ?  I  say,  some  peo- 
ple are  born  with  big  brains,  ]\Iiss  Pinhorn,  and  some 
with  big  figures.  Look  at  that  ass,  Bulkeley,  Lady  B.'s 
man !  He  is  as  big  as  a  Life-guardsman,  and  he  has  no 
more  education,  nor  no  more  ideas,  than  the  beef  he 
feeds  on." 

"La!  Richard,  whathever  do  you  mean?" 

"Pooh!  How  should  you  know  what  I  mean?  Lay 
them  books  straight.  Put  the  volumes  together,  stupid ! 
and  the  papers,  and  get  the  table  ready  for  nursery  tea, 
and  don't  go  on  there  mopping  your  eyes,  and  making  a 
fool  of  yourself,  Mary  Pinhorn! " 

"Oh,  your  heart  is  a  stone — a  stone — a  stone!"  cries 
Mary,  in  a  burst  of  tears.  "And  I  wish  it  was  hung 
round  my  neck,  and  I  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  well,  and 
— there's  the  hupstairs  bell!"  with  which  signal  I  sup- 
pose Mary  disappeared,  for  I  only  heard  a  sort  of  grunt 
from  Mr.  Bedford ;  then  the  clatter  of  a  dish  or  two,  the 
wheeling  of  chairs  and  furniture,  and  then  came  a  brief 
silence,  which  lasted  until  the  entry  of  Dick's  subordi- 
nate, Buttons,  who  laid  the  table  for  the  children's  and 
Miss  Prior's  tea. 

So  here  was  an  old  story  told  over  again.  Here  was 
love  unrequited,  and  a  little  passionate  heart  wounded 
and  unhappy.  My  poor  little  Mary !  As  I  am  a  sinner, 
I  will  give  thee  a  crown  when  I  go  away,  and  not  a 
couple  of  shillings,  as  my  wont  has  been.  Five  shillings 
will  not  console  thee  much,  but  they  will  console  thee  a 
little.  Thou  wilt  not  imagine  that  I  bribe  thee  with  any 
privy  thought  of  evil?  Away!  Ich  habe  genossen  das 
irdische  Gliick—ich  hahe—gelieht! 

At  this  juncture  I  suppose  Mrs.  Prior  must  have  en- 
tered the  apartment,  for  though  I  could  not  hear  her 


264  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

noiseless  step,  her  little  cracked  voice  came  pretty  clearly 
to  me  with  a  "  Good  afternoon,  Mr.  Bedford!  Oh,  dear 
me!  what  a  many — many  years  we  have  been  ac- 
quainted. To  think  of  the  pretty  little  printer's  boy  who 
used  to  come  to  IMr.  Batchelor,  and  see  you  grown  such 
a  fine  man!" 

Bedford. — "How?    I'm  only  five  foot  four." 

Mrs,  P. — "But  such  a  fine  figure,  Bedford!  You  are 
— now  indeed  you  are!  Well,  you  are  strong  and  I  am 
weak.    You  are  well,  and  I  am  weary  and  faint." 

Bedford. — "  The  tea's  a-coming  directly,  Mrs.  Prior." 

Mrs.  P. — "  Could  you  give  me  a  glass  of  water  first — 
and  perhaps  a  little  sherry  in  it,  please.  Oh,  thank  you. 
How  good  it  is!  How  it  revives  a  poor  old  wretch! — 
and  your  cough,  Bedford?  How  is  your  cough?  I  have 
brought  you  some  lozenges  for  it — some  of  Sir  Henry 
Halford's  own  prescribing  for  my  dear  husband,  and — " 

Bedford  (abruptly). — "I  must  go — never  mind  the 
cough  now,  ]Mrs.  P." 

Mrs.  Prior. — "What's  here?  almonds  and  raisins, 
macaroons,  preserved  apricots,  biscuits  for  dessert — and 
— la  bless  the  man!  how  you  sta — artled  me!" 

Bedford.  —  "Don't!  Mrs.  Prior:  I  beg  and  implore 
of  you,  keep  your  'ands  out  of  the  dessert.  I  can't  stand 
it.    I  must  tell  the  governor  if  this  game  goes  on." 

Mrs.  P. — "Ah!  Mr.  Bedford,  it  is  for  my  poor — poor 
child  at  home:  the  doctor  recommended  her  apricots. 
Ay,  indeed,  dear  Bedford;  he  did,  for  her  poor  chest!" 

Bedford. — "And  I'm  blest  if  you  haven't  been  at  the 
sherry -bottle  again!  Oh,  Mrs.  P.,  you  drive  me  wild — 
you  do.  I  can't  see  Lovel  put  upon  in  this  way.  You 
know  it's  only  last  week  I  whopped  the  boy  for  stealing 
the  sherry,  and  'twas  you  done  it." 


^^^lSl£^|i 


Where  the  Sugar  Goes 


IN  WHICH  I  PLAY  THE   SPY        265 

Mrs.  Prior  (passionately).— "For  a  sick  child,  Bed- 
ford.   What  won't  a  mother  do  for  her  sick  child? " 

Bedford.—''  Your  children's  always  sick.  You're  al- 
ways taking  things  for  'em.  I  tell  you,  by  the  laws,  I 
won't  and  mustn't  stand  it,  Mrs.  P." 

3Irs.  Prior  (with  much  spirit).— "Go  and  tell  your 
master,  Bedford !  Go  and  tell  tales  of  me,  sir.  Go  and 
have  me  dismissed  out  of  this  house.  Go  and  have  my 
daughter  dismissed  out  of  this  house,  and  her  poor  mo- 
ther brought  to  disgrace." 

Bedford.— ''Mrs.  Prior— Mrs.  Prior!  you  have  been 
a-taking  the  sherry.  A  glass  I  don't  mind:  but  you've 
been  a-bringing  that  bottle  again." 

3Irs.  P.  (whimpering).— "It's  for  Charlotte,  Bed- 
ford !  my  poor  delicate  angel  of  a  Shatty !  she's  ordered 
it,  indeed  she  is!" 

Bedford.—"  Confound  your  Shatty!  I  can't  stand  it, 
I  mustn't,  and  won't,  Mrs.  P.!" 

Here  a  noise  and  clatter  of  other  persons  arriving  in- 
terrupted the  conversation  between  Lovel's  major-domo 
and  the  mother  of  the  children's  governess,  and  I  pres- 
ently heard  Master  Pop's  voice  saying,  "  You're  going 
to  tea  with  us,  Mrs.  Prior? " 

3l7's.  p. — "  Your  kind  dear  grandmammas  have  asked 
me,  dear  Master  Popham." 

Pop.  —  "  But  you'd  like  to  go  to  dinner  best,  wouldn't 
you?  I  dare  say  you  have  doosid  bad  dinners  at  your 
house.    Haven't  you,  Mrs.  Prior? " 

Cissy. — "Don't  say  doosid.  It's  a  naughty  word, 
Popham!" 

Pop. — "I  xmll  say  doosid.  Doo-oo-oosid !  There! 
And  I'll  say  worse  words  too,  if  I  please,  and  you  hold 
your  tongue.    What's  there  for  tea?  jam  for  tea?  straw- 


266  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

berries  for  tea?  mufRns  for  tea?  That's  it:  strawberries 
and  muffins  for  tea.  And  we'll  go  in  to  dessert  besides : 
that's  prime.    I  say,  Miss  Prior?" 

Miss  Prior.  —  ''  What  do  you  say,  Popham? " 

Pop. — "  Shouldn't  you  like  to  go  in  to  dessert? — 
there's  lots  of  good  things  there, — and  have  wine.  Only 
when  grandmamma  tells  her  story  about — about  my 
grandfather  and  King  George  the  what-d'ye-call-'im: 
King  George  the  Fourth—" 

Cis. — "Ascended  the  throne,  1820;  died  at  Windsor, 
1830." 

Po2?.  — "Bother  Windsor!  Well,  when  she  tells  that 
story,  I  can  tell  you  that  ain't  very  good  fun." 

Cis. — "And  it's  rude  of  you  to  speak  in  that  way  of 
your  grandmamma,  Pop!" 

Pop. — "And  you'll  hold  your  tongue,  Miss!  And  I 
shall  speak  as  I  like.  And  I'm  a  man,  and  I  don't  want 
any  of  your  stuff  and  nonsense.  I  say,  Mary,  give  us 
the  marmalade ! " 

Cis.  —  "  You  have  had  plenty  to  eat,  and  boys  oughtn't 
to  have  so  much." 

Pop. — "  Boys  may  have  what  they  like.  Boys  can  eat 
twice  as  much  as  women.  There,  I  don't  want  any  more. 
Anybody  may  have  the  rest." 

Mrs.  Prior.  —  "What  nice  marmalade!  I  know  some 
children,  my  dears,  who — " 

31iss  P.  (imploringly) . — "  Mamma,  I  beseech  you — " 

Mrs.  P. — "I  know  three  dear  children  who  very — 
very  seldom  have  nice  marmalade  and  delicious  cake." 

Pop. — "I  know  whom  you  mean:  you  mean  Augus- 
tus, and  Frederick,  and  Fanny — your  children?  Well, 
they  shall  have  marmalade  and  cake." 

Cis.—''  Oh,  yes,  I  will  give  them  all  mine." 


IN  WHICH  I  PLAY  THE  SPY        267 

Pop.  (who  speaks,  I  think,  as  if  his  mouth  was  full). 
— "I  won't  give  'em  mine:  but  they  can  have  another 
pot,  you  know.  You  have  always  got  a  basket  with  you ; 
you  know  you  have,  Mrs.  Prior.  You  had  it  the  day  you 
took  the  cold  fowl." 

Mrs.  P.  —  "  For  the  poor  blind  black  man!  Oh,  how 
thankful  he  was  to  his  dear  young  benefactors !  He  is  a 
man  and  a  brother,  and  to  help  him  was  most  kind  of 
you,  dear  Master  Popham! " 

Pop.  —  "'  That  black  beggar  my  brother?  He  ain't  my 
brother." 

Mrs.  P.— "No,  dears,  you  have  both  the  most  lovely 
complexions  in  the  world." 

Pop. — "Bother  complexions!  I  say,  Mary,  another 
pot  of  marmalade." 

Mary. — "  I  don't  know,  Master  Pop — " 

Pop.—''  I  will  have  it,  I  say.  If  you  don't,  I'll  smash 
everything,  I  will." 

Cis.  — "  Oh,  you  naughty,  rude  boy!" 

Pop.  —  "Hold  your  tongue,  stupid!  I  will  have  it,  I 
say." 

Mrs.  P. — "Do  humour  him,  Mary,  please.  And  I'm 
sure  my  dear  children  at  home  will  be  better  for  it." 

Pop.  —  "  There's  your  basket.  Now  put  this  cake  in,  and 
this  bit  of  butter,  and  this  sugar  on  the  top  of  the  butter. 
Hurray!  hurray!  Oh,  what  jolly  fun!  Here's  some 
cake — no,  I  think  I'll  keep  that;  and,  Mrs.  Prior,  tell 
Gus,  and  Fanny,  and  Fred,  I  sent  it  to  'em,  and  they 
shall  never  want  for  anything  as  long  as  Frederick  Pop- 
ham  Baker  Lovel,  Esquire,  can  give  it  them.  Did  Gus 
like  my  grey  great-coat  that  I  didn't  want?" 

Miss  P. — "You  did  not  give  him  your  new  great- 
coat?" 


268  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

Pojj.—"  li  was  beastly  ugly,  and  I  did  give  it  him; 
and  I'll  give  him  this  if  I  choose.  And  don't  you  speak 
to  me;  I'm  going  to  school,  and  I  ain't  going  to  have  no 
governesses  soon." 

Mrs.  Prior.— "Ah,  dear  child!  what  a  nice  coat  it  isj 
and  how  well  my  poor  boy  looks  in  it! " 

Miss  Pnor.— "Mother,  mother!  I  implore  you— 
mother— ! " 

Mr.  Lovel  enters.— "  So  the  children  at  high  tea! 
How  d'ye  do,  Mrs.  Prior?  I  think  we  shall  be  able  to 
manage  that  little  matter  for  your  second  boy,  Mrs. 
Prior." 

Mrs.  Prior. — "Heaven  bless  you,— bless  you,  my 
dear,  kind  benefactor !  Don't  prevent  me,  Elizabeth :  I 
must  kiss  his  hand.    There!  " 

And  here  the  second  bell  rings,  and  I  enter  the  morn- 
ing-room, and  can  see  Mrs.  Prior's  great  basket  popped 
cunningly  under  the  table-cloth.  Her  basket?— her 
porte-manteau,  her  porte-bouteille,  her  porte-gdteau,  her 
porte-pantaloiij  her  porte-hutin  in  general.  Thus  I 
could  see  that  every  day  Mrs.  Prior  visited  Shrublands 
she  gleaned  greedily  of  the  harvest.  Well,  Boaz  was 
rich,  and  this  ruthless  Ruth  was  hungry  and  poor. 

At  the  welcome  summons  of  the  second  bell,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Bonnington  also  made  their  appearance ;  the  latter 
in  the  new  cap  which  Mrs.  Prior  had  admired,  and  which 
she  saluted  with  a  nod  of  smihng  recognition:  "Dear 
madam,  it  is  lovely— I  told  you  it  was,"  whispers  Mrs. 
P.,  and  the  wearer  of  the  blue  ribbons  turned  her  bonny, 
good-natured  face  towards  the  looking-glass,  and  I  hope 
saw  no  reason  to  doubt  ]\Irs.  Prior's  sincerity.  As  for 
Bonnington,  I  could  perceive  that  he  had  been  taking  a 
little  nap  before  dinner,— a  practice  by  which  the  appe- 


IN  WHICH  I  PLAY  THE   SPY        269 

tite  is  improved,  I  think,  and  the  intellect  prepared  for 
the  bland  prandial  conversation. 

"Have  the  children  been  quite  good?"  asks  papa,  of 
the  governess. 

"  There  are  worse  children,  sir,"  says  Miss  Prior, 
meekly, 

"INIake  haste  and  have  your  dinner;  we  are  coming 
in  to  dessert! "  cries  Pop. 

"  You  would  not  have  us  go  to  dine  without  j^our 
grandmother?"  papa  asks.  Dine  without  Lady  Baker, 
indeed !  I  should  have  liked  to  see  him  go  to  dinner  with- 
out Lady  Baker. 

Pending  her  ladyship's  arrival,  papa  and  Mr.  Ben- 
nington walk  to  the  open  window,  and  gaze  on  the  lawn 
and  the  towers  of  Putney  rising  over  the  wall. 

"Ah,  my  good  Mrs.  Prior,"  cries  Mrs.  Bonnington, 
"  those  grandchildren  of  mine  are  sadly  spoiled." 

"  Not  by  you,  dear  madam,"  says  Mrs.  Prior,  with  a 
look  of  commiseration.  "  Your  dear  children  at  home 
are,  I  am  sure,  perfect  models  of  goodness.  Is  Master 
Edward  well,  ma'am?  and  Master  Robert,  and  Master 
Richard,  and  dear  funny  little  Master  William?  Ah, 
what  blessings  those  children  are  to  you!  If  a  certain 
wilful  little  nephew  of  theirs  took  after  them ! " 

"The  little  naughty  wretch!"  cried  Mrs.  Bonning- 
ton; "  do  you  know.  Prior,  my  grandson  Frederick—  (I 
don't  know  why  they  call  him  Popham  in  this  house,  or 
why  he  should  be  ashamed  of  his  father's  name)  —do  you 
know  that  Popham  spilt  the  ink  over  my  dear  husband's 
bands,  which  he  keeps  in  his  great  dictionary,  and  fought 
with  my  Richard,  who  is  three  years  older  than  Popham, 
and  actually  beat  his  own  uncle! " 

"Gracious  goodness!"  I  cried;  "you  don't  mean  to 


270  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

say,  ma'am,  that  Pop  has  been  laying  violent  hands  upon 
his  venerable  relative?"  I  feel  ever  so  gentle  a  pull  at 
my  coat.  Was  it  Miss  Prior  who  warned  me  not  to  in- 
dulge in  the  sarcastic  method  with  good  Mrs.  Bon- 
nington  ? 

"  I  don't  know  why  you  call  my  poor  child  a  venerable 
relative,"  INIrs.  B.  remarks.  "  I  know  that  Popham  was 
very  rude  to  him :  and  then  Robert  came  to  his  brother, 
and  that  graceless  little  Popham  took  a  stick,  and  my 
husband  came  out,  and  do  you  know  Popham  Lovel 
actually  kicked  Mr.  Bonnington  on  the  shins,  and  butted 
him  like  a  little  naughty  ram;  and  if  you  think  such  con- 
duct is  a  subject  for  ridicule— I  dont,  Mr.  Batchelor." 

"My  dear— dear  lady!"  I  cried,  seizing  her  hand; 
for  she  was  going  to  cry,  and  in  woman's  eye  the  unan- 
swerable tear  always  raises  a  deuce  of  a  commotion  in 
my  mind.  "  I  would  not  for  the  world  saj^  a  word  that 
should  willingly  vex  you;  and  as  for  Popham,  I  give 
you  my  honour,  I  think  nothing  would  do  that  child  so 
much  good  as  a  good  whipping." 

"He  is  spoiled,  madam;  we  know  by  whom"  says 
Mrs.  Prior.  "Dear  Lady  Baker!  how  that  red  does 
become  your  ladyship."  In  fact,  Lady  B.  sailed  in  at 
this  juncture,  arrayed  in  ribbons  of  scarlet;  with  many 
brooches,  bangles,  and  other  gimcracks  ornamenting  her 
plenteous  person.  And  now  her  ladyship  having  arrived, 
Bedford  announced  that  dinner  was  served,  and  Lovel 
gave  his  mother-in-law  an  arm,  whilst  I  oiFered  mine  to 
Mrs.  Bonnington  to  lead  her  to  the  adjoining  dining- 
room.  And  the  pacable  kind  soul  speedily  made  peace 
with  me.  And  we  ate  and  drank  of  Lovel's  best.  And 
Lady  Baker  told  us  her  celebrated  anecdote  of  George 
the  Fourth's  compliment  to  her  late  dear  husband.  Sir 


IN  WHICH  I  PLAY  THE   SPY        271 

Popham,  when  his  Majesty  visited  Ireland.  INIrs.  Prior 
and  her  basket  were  gone  when  we  repaired  to  the  draw- 
ing-room :  having  been  hunting  all  da}^  the  hungry  mo- 
ther had  returned  with  her  prey  to  her  wide-mouthed 
birdikins.  Elizabeth  looked  very  pale  and  handsome, 
reading  at  her  lamp.  And  whist  and  the  little  tray  fin- 
ished the  second  day  at  Shrublands. 

I  paced  the  moonlit  walk  alone  when  the  family  had 
gone  to  rest;  and  smoked  my  cigar  under  the  tranquil 
stars.  I  had  been  some  thirty  hours  in  the  house,  and 
what  a  queer  little  drama  was  unfolding  itself  before  me ! 
What  struggles  and  passions  were  going  on  here — what 
certmnina  and  motus  animorum!  Here  was  Lovel,  this 
willing  horse;  and  what  a  crowd  of  relations,  what  a 
heap  of  luggage  had  the  honest  fellow  to  carry!  How 
that  little  Mrs.  Prior  was  working,  and  scheming,  and 
tacking,  and  flattering,  and  fawning,  and  plundering,  to 
be  sure !  And  that  serene  Elizabeth,  with  Avhat  consum- 
mate skill,  art,  and  prudence,  had  she  to  act,  to  keep  her 
place  with  two  such  rivals  reigning  over  her.  And 
Elizabeth  not  only  kept  her  place,  but  she  actually  was 
liked  by  those  two  women!  Why,  Elizabeth  Prior,  my 
wonder  and  respect  for  thee  increase  with  every  hour 
during  which  I  contemplate  thy  character!  How  is  it 
that  you  live  with  those  lionesses,  and  are  not  torn  to 
pieces?  What  sops  of  flattery  do  you  cast  to  them  to 
appease  them?  Perhaps  I  do  not  think  my  Elizabeth 
brings  up  her  two  children  very  well,  and,  indeed,  have 
seldom  become  acquainted  with  young  people  more 
odious.  But  is  the  fault  hers,  or  is  it  Fortune's  spite? 
How,  with  these  two  grandmothers  spoiling  the  children 
alternately,  can  the  governess  do  better  than  she  does? 
How  has  she  managed  to  lull  their  natural  jealousy?    I 


272  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

will  work  out  that  intricate  problem,  that  I  will,  ere 
many  days  are  over.  And  there  are  other  mysteries 
which  I  perceive.  There  is  poor  Mary  breaking  her 
heart  for  the  butler.  That  butler,  why  does  he  connive 
at  the  rogueries  of  Mrs.  Prior?  Ha!  herein  lies  a  mys- 
tery too;  and  I  vow  I  will  penetrate  it  ere  long.  So 
saying,  I  fling  away  the  butt-end  of  the  fragrant  com- 
panion of  my  solitude,  and  enter  into  my  room  by  the 
open  French  window  just  as  Bedford  walks  in  at  the 
door.  I  had  heard  the  voice  of  that  worthy  domestic 
warbling  a  grave  melody  from  his  pantry  window  as  I 
paced  the  lawn.  When  the  family  goes  to  rest,  Bedford 
passes  a  couple  of  hours  in  study  in  his  pantry,  perusing 
the  newspapers  and  the  new  works,  and  forming  his 
opinion  on  books  and  politics.  Indeed  I  have  reason  to 
believe  that  the  letters  in  the  Putney  Herald  and  Mort- 
lake  Monitor,  signed  "A  Voice  from  the  Basement," 
were  Mr.  Bedford's  composition. 

"  Come  to  see  all  safe  for  the  night,  sir,  and  the  win- 
dows closed  before  you  turn  in,"  Mr.  Dick  remarks. 
"  Best  not  leave  'em  open,  even  if  you  are  asleep  inside — 
catch  cold — many  bad  people  about.  Remember  Brom- 
ley murder!— Enter  at  French  windows— you  cry  out 
— cut  your  throat — and  there's  a  fine  paragraph  for 
papers  next  morning!" 

"What  a  good  voice  you  have,  Bedford,"  I  say;  "I 
heard  you  warbling  just  now— a  famous  bass,  on  my 
word!" 

"Always  fond  of  music — sing  when  I'm  cleaning  my 
plate— learned  in  Old  Beak  Street.  She  used  to  teach 
me,"  and  he  points  towards  the  upper  floors. 

"What  a  little  chap  you  were  then! — when  you  came 
for  my  proofs  for  the  Museum,"  I  remark. 


IN  WHICH  I  PLAY  THE   SPY        273 

"I  ain't  a  very  big  one  now,  sir;  but  it  ain't  the  big 
ones  that  do  the  best  work,"  remarks  the  butler. 

"  I  remember  JNIiss  Prior  saying  that  you  were  as  old 
as  she  was." 

"Hm!  and  I  scarce  came  up  to  her — eh — elbow." 
(Bedford  had  constantly  to  do  battle  with  the  aspirates. 
He  conquered  them,  but  you  could  see  there  was  a 
struggle. ) 

"And  it  was  Miss  Prior  taught  you  to  sing?"  I  say, 
looking  him  full  in  the  face. 

He  dropped  his  eyes — he  could  not  bear  my  scrutiny. 
I  knew  the  whole  story  now. 

"When  Mrs.  Lovel  died  at  Naples,  Miss  Prior 
brought  home  the  children,  and  you  acted  as  courier  to 
the  whole  party? " 

"Yes,  sir,"  says  Bedford.  "We  had  the  carriage, 
and  of  course  poor  Mrs.  L.  was  sent  home  by  sea,  and 
I  brought  home  the  young  ones,  and — and  the  rest  of  the 
family.  I  could  say,  Avanti !  avanti !  to  the  Italian  pos- 
tilions, and  ask  for  des  chevaux  when  we  crossed  the 
Halps— the  Alps,— I  beg  your  pardon,  sir." 

"And  you  used  to  see  the  party  to  their  rooms  at  the 
inns,  and  call  them  up  in  the  morning,  and  you  had  a 
blunderbuss  in  the  rumble  to  shoot  the  robbers? " 

"  Yes,"  says  Bedford. 

"  And  it  was  a  pleasant  time? " 

"Yes,"  says  Bedford,  groaning  and  hanging  down 
his  miserable  head.     "  Oh,  yes,  it  was  a  pleasant  time." 

He  turned  away;  he  stamped  his  foot;  he  gave  a  sort 
of  imprecation ;  he  pretended  to  look  at  some  books,  and 
dust  them  with  a  napkin  which  he  carried.  I  saw  the 
matter  at  once.    "Poor  Dick!"  says  I. 

"  It's  the  old— old  story,"  says  Dick.    "  It's  you  and 


274  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

the  HIrish  girl  over  again,  sir.  I'm  only  a  servant,  I 
know;  but  I'm  a — .  Confound  it! "  And  here  he  stuck 
his  fists  into  his  eyes. 

"And  this  is  the  reason  you  allow  old  Mrs.  Prior  to 
steal  the  sherry  and  the  sugar? "    I  ask. 

"How  do  you  know  that? — you  remember  how  she 
prigged  in  Beak  Street? "  asks  Bedford,  fiercely. 

"  I  overheard  you  and  her  just  before  dinner,"  I  said. 

"  You  had  better  go  and  tell  Lovel— have  me  turned 
out  of  the  house.  That's  the  best  thing  that  can  be 
done,"  cries  Bedford  again,  fiercely,  stamping  his  feet. 

"It  is  always  my  custom  to  do  as  much  mischief  as  I 
possibly  can,  Dick  Bedford,"  I  say,  with  fine  irony. 

He  seizes  my  hand.  "  No,  you're  a  trump — every- 
body knows  that;  beg  pardon,  sir;  but  you  see  I'm  so — 
so — dash! — miserable,  that  I  hardly  know  whether  I'm 
walking  on  my  head  or  my  heels." 

"  You  haven't  succeeded  in  touching  her  heart,  then, 
my  poor  Dick?"  I  said. 

Dick  shook  his  head.  "  She  has  no  heart,"  he  said.  "  If 
she  ever  had  any,  that  fellar  in  India  took  it  away  with 
him.  She  don't  care  for  anybody  alive.  She  likes  me 
as  well  as  any  one.  I  think  she  appreciates  me,  you 
see,  sir;  she  can't  'elp  it — I'm  blest  if  she  can.  She 
knows  I  am  a  better  man  than  most  of  the  chans  that 

A- 

come  down  here, — I  am,  if  I  wasn't  a  servant.  If  I  were 
only  an  apothecary— like  that  grinning  jackass  who 
comes  here  from  Barnes  in  his  gig,  and  wants  to  marry 
her — she'd  have  me.  She  keeps  him  on,  and  encour- 
ages him — she  can  do  that  cleverly  enough.  And  the 
old  dragon  fancies  she  is  fond  of  him.  Psha!  Why 
am  I  making  a  fool  of  myself? — I  am  only  a  servant. 
Mary's  good  enough  for  me;  she'll  have  me  fast  enough. 


IX  WHICH  I  PLAY  THE   SPY        275 

I  beg  your  pardon,  sir;  I  am  making  a  fool  of  myself; 
I  ain't  the  first,  sir.  Good-night,  sir;  hope  you'll  sleep 
well."  And  Dick  departs  to  his  pantry  and  his  private 
cares,  and  I  think,  "  Here  is  another  victim  who  is  writh- 
ing under  the  merciless  arrows  of  the  universal  torturer." 

"  Pie  is  a  very  singular  person,"  JSIiss  Prior  remarked 
to  me,  as,  next  day,  I  happened  to  be  walking  on  Put- 
ney Heath  by  her  side,  while  her  young  charges  trotted 
on  and  quarrelled  in  the  distance.  "  I  wonder  where  the 
world  will  stop  next,  dear  Mr.  Batchelor,  and  how  far 
the  march  of  intellect  will  proceed!  Any  one  so  free, 
and  easy,  and  cool,  as  this  Mr.  Bedford  I  never  saw. 
When  we  were  abroad  with  poor  ]Mrs.  Lovel,  he  picked 
up  French  and  Italian  in  quite  a  surprising  way.  He 
takes  books  down  from  the  library  now:  the  most  ab- 
struse w^orks— works  that  I  couldn't  pretend  to  read, 
I'm  sure.  Mr.  Bonnington  says  he  has  taught  himself 
history,  and  Horace  in  Latin,  and  algebra,  and  I  don't 
know  what  besides.  He  talked  to  the  servants  and 
tradespeople  at  Naples  much  better  than  I  could,  I 
assure  you."  And  Elizabeth  tosses  up  her  head  heaven- 
wards, as  if  she  would  ask  of  yonder  skies  how  such  a 
man  could  possibly  be  as  good  as  herself. 

She  stepped  along  the  Heath— slim,  stately,  healthy, 
tall — her  firm,  neat  foot  treading  swiftly  over  the  grass. 
She  wore  her  blue  spectacles,  but  I  think  she  could  have 
looked  at  the  sun  without  the  glasses  and  without  winc- 
ing. That  sun  was  playing  with  her  tawny,  wavy  ring- 
lets, and  scattering  gold-dust  over  them. 

"  It  is  wonderful,"  said  I,  admiring  her,  "  how  these 
people  give  themselves  airs,  and  try  to  imitate  their  bet- 
ters!" 

"  Most  extraordinary!  "  says  Bessy.     She  had  not  one 


276  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

particle  of  humour  in  all  her  composition.  I  think  Dick 
Bedford  was  right;  and  she  had  no  heart.  Well,  she 
had  famous  lungs,  health,  appetite,  and  with  these  one 
may  get  through  life  not  uncomfortably. 

"You  and  Saint  Cecilia  got  on  pretty  well,  Bessy?" 
I  ask. 

"Saint  who?" 

"  The  late  Mrs.  L." 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Lovel: — yes.  What  an  odd  person  you 
are!  I  did  not  understand  whom  you  meant,"  says  Eliz- 
abeth the  downright. 

"  Not  a  good  temper,  I  should  think?  She  and  Fred 
fought?" 

''He  never  fought." 

"  I  think  a  little  bird  has  told  me  that  she  was  not 
averse  to  the  admiration  of  our  sex?" 

"  I  don't  speak  ill  of  my  friends,  Mr.  Batchelor,"  re- 
plies Elizabeth  the  prudent. 

"  You  must  have  difficult  work  with  the  two  old  ladies 
at  Shrublands?" 

Bessy  shrugs  her  shoulders.  "A  little  management 
is  necessary  in  all  families,"  she  says.  "  The  ladies  are 
naturally  a  little  jealous  one  of  the  other;  but  they  are 
both  of  them  not  unkind  to  me  in  the  main;  and  I  have 
to  bear  no  more  than  other  women  in  my  situation.  It 
was  not  all  pleasure  at  St.  Boniface,  INIr.  Batchelor, 
with  my  uncle  and  aunt.  I  suppose  all  governesses 
have  their  difficulties;  and  I  must  get  over  mine  as  best 
I  can,  and  be  thankful  for  the  liberal  salary  which 
your  kindness  procured  for  me,  and  which  enables 
me  to  help  my  poor  mother  and  my  brothers  and 
sisters." 

"  I  suppose  you  give  all  your  money  to  her?" 


IN  WHICH  I  PLAY  THE   SPY        27T 

"Nearly  all.  They  must  have  it;  poor  mamma  has 
so  many  mouths  to  feed." 

"And  notre  petit  coeur,  Bessy? "  I  ask,  looking  in  her 
fresh  face.    "  Have  we  replaced  the  Indian  officer?  " 

Another  shrug  of  the  shoulders.  "  I  suppose  we  all 
get  over  those  follies,  ]Mr.  Batchelor.  I  remember 
somebody  else  was  in  a  sad  way  too," — and  she  looks 
askance  at  the  victim  of  Glorvina.  ''My  folly  is  dead 
and  buried  long  ago.  I  have  to  work  so  hard  for 
mamma,  and  my  brothers  and  sisters,  that  I  have  no 
time  for  such  nonsense." 

Here  a  gentleman  in  a  natty  gig,  with  a  high-trotting 
horse,  came  spanking  towards  us  over  the  common,  and 
with  my  profound  knowledge  of  human  nature,  I  saw 
at  once  that  the  servant  hy  the  driver's  side  was  a  little 
doctor's  boy,  and  the  gentleman  himself  was  a  neat  and 
trim  general  practitioner. 

He  stared  at  me  grimly,  as  he  made  a  bow  to 
Miss  Bessy.  I  saw  jealousy  and  suspicion  in  his 
aspect. 

"  Thank  you,  dear  Mr.  Drencher,"  says  Bessy,  "  for 
your  kindness  to  mamma  and  our  children.  You  are 
going  to  call  at  Shrublands?  Lady  Baker  was  indis- 
posed this  morning.  She  says  when  she  can't  have  Dr. 
Piper,  there's  nobody  like  you."  And  this  artful  one 
smiles  blandly  on  Mr.  Drencher. 

"  I  have  got  the  workhouse,  and  a  case  at  Roehamp- 
ton,  and  I  shall  be  at  Shrublands  about  two.  Miss  Prior," 
says  that  young  Doctor,  whom  Bedford  had  called  a 
grinning  jackass.  He  laid  an  eager  emphasis  on  the 
two.  Go  to!  I  know  what  two  and  two  mean  as  well 
as  most  people,  ^Mr.  Drencher!  Glances  of  rage  he 
shot  at  me  from  out  his  gig.    The  serpents  of  that  mis- 


278  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

erable  yEsculapius  unwound  themselves  from  his  rod, 
and  were  gnawing  at  his  swollen  heart ! 

"He  has  a  good  practice,  Mr.  Drencher?"  I  ask,  sly 
rogue  as  I  am. 

"  He  is  very  good  to  mamma  and  our  children.  His 
practice  with  them  does  not  profit  him  much,"  says 
Bessy. 

"And  I  suppose  our  walk  will  be  over  before  two 
o'clock?"  remarks  that  slyboots  who  is  walking  with 
Miss  Prior. 

"  I  hope  so.  Why,  it  is  our  dinner-time ;  and  this 
walk  on  the  Heath  does  make  one  so  hungry! "  cries  the 
governess. 

"  Bessy  Prior,"  I  said,  "  it  is  my  belief  that  you  no 
more  want  spectacles  than  a  cat  in  the  twilight."  To 
which  she  replied,  that  I  was  such  a  strange,  odd  man, 
she  really  could  not  understand  me. 

We  were  back  at  Shrublands  at  two.  Of  course  we 
must  not  keep  the  children's  dinner  waiting:  and  of 
course  ]Mr.  Drencher  drove  up  at  five  minutes  past  two, 
with  his  gig-horse  all  in  a  lather.  I,  who  knew  the 
secrets  of  the  house,  was  amused  to  see  the  furious 
glances  which  Bedford  darted  from  the  sideboard,  or 
as  he  served  the  Doctor  with  cutlets.  Drencher,  for  his 
part,  scowled  at  me.  I,  for  my  part,  was  easy,  witt}^ 
pleasant,  and  I  trust  profoundly  wicked  and  malicious. 
I  bragged  about  my  aristocratic  friends  to  Lady  Baker. 
I  trumped  her  old-world  stories  about  George  the 
Fourth  at  Dublin  with  the  latest  dandified  intelligence 
I  had  learned  at  the  club.  That  the  young  Doctor 
should  be  dazzled  and  disgusted  w^as,  I  own,  my  w^ish; 
and  I  enjoyed  his  rage  as  I  saw  him  choking  with  jeal- 
ousy over  his  victuals. 


IN  WHICH  I  PLAY  THE   SPY        279 

But  why  was  Lady  Baker  sulky  with  me?  How 
came  it,  my  fashionable  stories  had  no  effect  upon  that 
polite  matron?  Yesterday  at  dinner  she  had  been  gra- 
cious enough:  and  turning  her  back  upon  those  poor 
simple  Bonningtons,  who  knew  nothing  of  the  beau 
monde  at  all,  had  condescended  to  address  herself  spe- 
cially to  me  several  times  with  an  "  I  need  not  tell  you,, 
^Ir.  Batchelor,  that  the  Duchess  of  Dorsetshire's  maiden 
name  was  De  Bobus;"  or,  "You  know  very  well  that 
the  etiquette  at  the  Lord  Lieutenant's  balls,  at  Dublin 
Castle,  is  for  the  wives  of  baronets  to  " — &c.  &c. 

Now  whence,  I  say,  did  it  arise  that  Lady  Baker, 
who  had  been  kind  and  famihar  with  me  on  Sunday, 
should  on  Monday  turn  me  a  shoulder  as  cold  as  that 
lamb  which  I  offered  to  carve  for  the  family,  and  which 
remained  from  j'-esterday's  quarter?  I  had  thought  of 
staying  but  two  days  at  Shrublands.  I  generally  am 
bored  at  country-houses.  I  was  going  away  on  the 
JMonday  morning,  but  Lovel,  when  he  and  I  and  the 
children  and  Miss  Prior  breakfasted  together  before  he 
went  to  business,  pressed  me  to  stay  so  heartily  and 
sincerely  that  I  agreed,  gladly  enough,  to  remain.  I 
could  finish  a  scene  or  two  of  my  tragedy  at  my  leisure ; 
besides,  there  were  one  or  two  little  comedies  going  on 
in  the  house  which  inspired  me  with  no  little  curiosity. 

Lady  Baker  growled  at  me,  then,  during  lunch-time. 
She  addressed  herself  in  whispers  and  hints  to  Mr. 
Drencher.  She  had  in  her  own  man  Bulkeley,  and  bul- 
lied him.  She  desired  to  know  whether  she  was  to  have 
the  barouche  or  not:  and  when  informed  that  it  was 
at  her  ladyship's  service,  said  it  was  a  great  deal  too 
cold  for  the  open  carriage,  and  that  she  would  have  the 
brougham.    When  she  was  told  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bon- 


280  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

nington  had  impounded  the  brougham,  she  said  she  had 
no  idea  of  people  taking  other  people's  carriages:  and 
when  Mr.  Bedford  remarked  that  her  ladyship  had  her 
choice  that  morning,  and  had  chosen  the  barouche  she 
said,  "I  didn't  speak  to  you,  sir;  and  I  will  thank  you 
not  to  address  me  until  you  are  spoken  to! "  She  made 
the  place  so  hot  that  I  began  to  wish  I  had  quitted  it. 

"And  pray.  Miss  Prior,  where  is  Captain  Baker  to 
sleep,"  she  asked,  "  now  that  the  ground-floor  room  is 
engaged?" 

Miss  Prior  meekly  said,  "  Captain  Baker  would  have 
the  pink  room." 

"  The  room  on  my  landing-place,  without  double 
doors  ?  Impossible !  Clarence  is  always  smoking.  Clar- 
ence will  fill  the  whole  house  with  his  smoke.  He  shall 
not  sleep  in  the  pink  room.  I  expected  the  ground- 
floor  room  for  him,  which — a — this  gentleman  persists 
in  not  vacating."  And  the  dear  creature  looked  me  full 
in  the  face. 

"  This  gentleman  smokes,  too,  and  is  so  comfortable 
where  he  is,  that  he  proposes  to  remain  there,"  I  say, 
with  a  bland  smile. 

"Haspic  of  plovers'  eggs,  sir,"  says  Bedford,  hand- 
ing a  dish  over  my  back.  And  he  actually  gave  me  a 
little  dig,  and  growled,  "Go  it — give  it  her!" 

"  There  is  a  capital  inn  on  the  Heath,"  I  continue, 
peeling  one  of  my  opal  favourites.  "  If  Captain  Baker 
must  smoke,  he  may  have  a  room  there." 

"  Sir!  my  son  does  not  live  at  inns,"  cries  Lady  Baker. 

"Oh,  grandma!  don't  he  though?  And  wasn't  there 
a  row  at  the  '  Star  and  Garter ; '  and  didn't  Pa  pay  uncle 
Clarence's  bill  there,  though?  " 

"Silence,  Popham!     Little  boys  should  be  seen  and 


IN  WHICH  I  PLAY  THE   SPY        281 

not  heard,"  says  Cissy.  "  Shouldn't  little  boys  be  seen 
and  not  heard,  Miss  Prior?" 

"  They  shouldn't  insult  their  grandmothers.  O  my 
Cecilia— my  Cecilia!"  cries  Lady  Baker,  lifting  her 
hand. 

"  You  shan't  hit  me!  I  say,  you  shan't  hit  me! "  roars 
Pop,  starting  back,  and  beginning  to  square  at  his  en- 
raged ancestress.  The  scene  was  growing  painful. 
And  there  was  that  rascal  of  a  Bedford  choking  with 
suppressed  laughter  at  the  sideboard.  Bulkeley,  her 
ladyshiji's  man,  stood  calm  as  fate;  but  young  Buttons 
burst  out  in  a  guifaw;  on  which,  I  assure  you,  Lady 
Baker  looked  as  savage  as  Lady  Macbeth. 

"Am  I  to  be  insulted  by  my  daughter's  servants?" 
cries  Lady  Baker.    "  I  will  leave  the  house  this  instant." 

"At  what  hour  will  your  ladyship  have  the  barouche? " 
says  Bedford,  with  perfect  gravity. 

If  Mr.  Drencher  had  whipped  out  a  lancet  and  bled 

Lady  B on  the  spot,  he  would  have  done  her  good. 

I  shall  draw  the  curtain  over  this  sad— this  humiliating 
scene.    Drop,  little  curtain !  on  this  absurd  little  act. 


CHAPTER  IV 


A  BLACK   SHEEP 


HE  being  for  whom 
my  friend  Dick  Bed 
ford  seemed  to 
have  a  special  con- 
tempt and  aver- 
sion, was  Mr. 
Bulkeley,  the 
tall  footman 
in  attendance 
upon  Lovel's 
dear  mother- 
in-law.  One 
of  the  causes 
of  Bedford's 
wrath  the  worthy  fellow  explained  to  me.  In  the  ser- 
vants' hall,  Bulkeley  was  in  the  habit  of  speaking  in 
disrespectful  and  satirical  terms  of  his  mistress,  enlarg- 
ing upon  her  many  foibles,  and  describing  her  pecun- 
iary difficulties  to  the  many  habitues  of  that  second 
social  circle  at  Shrublands.  The  hold  which  Mr.  Bulk- 
eley had  over  his  lady  lay  in  a  long  unsettled  account  of 
wages,  which  her  ladyship  M^as  quite  disinclined  to  dis- 
charge. And,  in  spite  of  this  insolvency,  the  footman 
must  have  found  his  profit  in  the  place,  for  he  con- 

282 


A   BLACK   SHEEP  283 

tinued  to  hold  it  from  year  to  year,  and  to  fatten  on  his 
earnings,  such  as  they  were.  My  lady's  dignity  did  not 
allow  her  to  travel  without  this  huge  personage  in  her 
train;  and  a  great  comfort  it  must  have  been  to  her,  to 
reflect  that  in  all  the  country-houses  which  she  visited 
(and  she  would  go  wherever  she  could  force  an  invita- 
tion), her  attendant  freely  explained  himself  regard- 
ing her  peculiarities,  and  made  his  brother  servants 
aware  of  his  mistress's  embarrassed  condition.  And  yet 
the  woman,  whom  I  suppose  no  soul  alive  respected 
(unless,  hajDly,  she  herself  had  a  hankering  delusion  that 
she  was  a  respectable  woman) ,  thought  that  her  position 
in  life  forbade  her  to  move  abroad  without  a  maid,  and 
this  hulking  incumbrance  in  plush;  and  never  was  seen 
anywhere,  in  watering-place,  country-house,  hotel,  un- 
less she  was  so  attended. 

Between  Bedford  and  Bulkeley,  then,  there  was  feud 
and  mutual  hatred.  Bedford  chafed  the  big  man  by 
constant  sneers  and  sarcasms,  which  penetrated  the 
other's  dull  hide,  and  caused  him  frequently  to  assert 
that  he  would  punch  Dick's  ugly  head  off.  The  house- 
keeper had  frequently  to  interpose,  and  fling  her  ma- 
tronly arms  between  these  men  of  war;  and  perhaps 
Bedford  was  forced  to  be  still  at  times,  for  Bulkeley 
was  nine  inches  taller  than  himself,  and  was  perpetually 
bragging  of  his  skill  and  feats  as  a  bruiser.  This  sultan 
may  also  have  wished  to  fling  his  pocket-handkerchief  to 
Miss  Mary  Pinhorn,  who,  though  she  loved  Bedford's 
wit  and  cleverness,  might  also  be  not  insensible  to  the 
magnificent  chest,  calves,  whiskers,  of  INIr.  Bulkeley. 
On  this  delicate  subject,  however,  I  can't  speak.  The 
men  hated  each  other.  You  have,  no  doubt,  remarked 
in  your  experience  of  life,  that  when  men  do  hate  each 


284  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

other,  about  a  woman,  or  some  other  cause,  the  real 
reason  is  never  assigned.  You  say,  "  The  conduct  of 
such  and  such  a  man  to  his  grandmother — his  behaviour 
in  selhng  that  horse  to  Benson — his  manner  of  brushing 
his  hair  down  the  middle  " — or  what  you  will,  "  makes 
him  so  offensive  to  me  that  I  can't  endure  him."  His 
verses,  therefore,  are  mediocre;  his  speeches  in  Parlia- 
ment are  utter  failures;  his  practice  at  the  bar  is  dwin- 
dling every  year;  his  powers  (always  small)  are  utterly 
leaving  him,  and  he  is  repeating  his  confounded  jokes 
until  they  quite  nauseate.  Why,  only  about  myself, 
and  within  these  three  days,  I  read  a  nice  little  article 
— written  in  sorrow,  you  know,  not  in  anger — by  our 
eminent  confrere  Wiggins,  deploring  the  decay  of  &c. 
&;c.  And  Wiggins's  little  article  which  was  not  found 
suitable  for  a  certain  Magazine? — Allans  done!  The 
drunkard  says  the  pickled  salmon  gave  him  the  head- 
ache; the  man  who  hates  us  gives  a  reason,  but  not  the 
reason.  Bedford  was  angry  with  Bulkeley  for  abusing 
his  mistress  at  the  servants'  table?  Yes.  But  for  what 
else  besides?  I  don't  care — nor  possibly  does  your  wor- 
ship, the  exalted  reader,  for  these  low  vulgar  kitchen 
quarrels. 

Out  of  that  ground-floor  room,  then,  I  would  not 
move  in  spite  of  the  utmost  efforts  of  my  Lady  Baker's 
broad  shoulder  to  push  me  out;  and  with  many  grins 
that  evening,  Bedford  complimented  me  on  my  gal- 
lantry in  routing  the  enemy  at  luncheon.  I  think  he 
may  possibly  have  told  his  master,  for  Lovel  looked 
very  much  alarmed  and  uneasy  when  we  greeted  each 
other  on  his  return  from  the  city,  but  became  more  com- 
posed when  Lady  Baker  appeared  at  the  second  dinner- 
bell,  without  a  trace  on  her  fine  countenance  of  that 


A  BLACK   SHEEP  285 

storm  which  had  caused  all  her  waves  to  heave  with 
such  commotion  at  noon.  How  finely  some  people,  by 
the  way,  can  hang  up  quarrels — or  pop  them  into  a 
drawer — as  they  do  their  work,  when  dinner  is  an- 
nounced, and  take  them  out  again  at  a  convenient  sea- 
son! Baker  was  mild,  gentle,  a  thought  sad  and  senti- 
mental— tenderly  interested  about  her  dear  son  and 
daughter,  in  Ireland,  whom  she  must  go  and  see — quite 
easy  in  hand,  in  a  word,  and  to  the  immense  relief  of  all 
of  us.  She  kissed  Lovel  on  retiring,  and  prayed  bless- 
ings on  her  Frederick.  She  pointed  to  the  picture: 
nothing  could  be  more  melancholy  or  more  gracious. 

''She  go!"  says  Mr.  Bedford  to  me  at  night— "not 
she.  She  knows  when  she's  well  off ;  was  obliged  to  turn 
out  of  Bakerstown  before  she  came  here:  that  brute 
Bulkeley  told  me  so.  She's  always  quarrelling  with  her 
son  and  his  wife.  Angels  don't  grow  everywhere  as  they 
do  at  Putney,  Mr.  B. !  You  gave  it  her  well  to-day  at 
lunch,  you  did  though ! "  During  my  stay  at  Shrub- 
lands,  Mr.  Bedford  paid  me  a  regular  evening  visit  in 
my  room,  set  the  carte  du  pays  before  me,  and  in  his 
curt  way  acquainted  me  with  the  characters  of  the  in- 
mates of  the  house,  and  the  incidents  occurring  therein. 

Captain  Clarence  Baker  did  not  come  to  Shrublands 
on  the  day  when  his  anxious  mother  wished  to  clear  out 
my  nest  (and  expel  the  amiable  bird  in  it)  for  her  son's 
benefit.  I  believe  an  important  fight,  which  was  to 
come  off  in  the  Essex  Marshes,  and  which  was  postponed 
in  consequence  of  the  interposition  of  the  county  mag- 
istrates, was  the  occasion,  or  at  any  rate  the  pretext,  of 
the  Captain's  delay.  "  He  likes  seeing  fights  better 
than  going  to  'em,  the  Captain  does,"  my  major-domo 
remarked.     "  His  regiment  was  ordered  to  India,  and 


286  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

he  sold  out :  climate  don't  agree  with  his  precious  health. 
The  Captain  ain't  been  here  ever  so  long,  not  since  poor 
JMrs.  L.'s  time,  before  JMiss  P.  came  here:  Captain 
Clarence  and  his  sister  had  a  tremendous  quarrel  to- 
gether. He  was  up  to  all  sorts  of  pranks,  the  Captain 
was.  Not  a  good  lot,  by  any  means,,  I  should  say,  jMr. 
Batchelor."  And  here  Bedford  begins  to  laugh.  "Did 
you  ever  read,  sir,  a  farce  called  '  Raising  the  Wind  ? ' 
There's  plenty  of  Jeremy  Diddlers  now.  Captain  Jer- 
emy Diddlers  and  Lady  Jeremy  Diddlers  too.  Have 
you  such  a  thing  as  half-a-crown  about  you?  If  j^ou 
have,  don't  invest  it  in  some  folk's  pockets — that's  all. 
Beg  your  pardon,  sir,  if  I  am  bothering  you  with 
talking." 

As  long  as  I  was  at  Shrublands,  and  ready  to  partake 
of  breakfast  with  my  kind  host  and  his  children  and 
their  governess.  Lady  Baker  had  her  own  breakfast 
taken  to  her  room.  But  when  there  were  no  visitors 
in  the  house,  she  would  come  groaning  out  of  her  bed- 
room to  be  present  at  the  morning  meal;  and  not  un- 
commonly would  give  the  little  company  anecdotes  of 
the  departed  saint,  under  whose  invocation,  as  it  were, 
we  were  assembled,  and  whose  simpering  effigy  looked 
down  upon  us,  over  her  harp,  and  from  the  wall.  The 
eyes  of  the  portrait  followed  you  about,  as  portraits' 
eyes  so  painted  will;  and  those  glances,  as  it  seemed  to 
me,  still  domineered  over  Lovel,  and  made  him  quail  as 
they  had  done  in  life.  Yonder,  in  the  corner,  was 
Cecilia's  harp,  with  its  leathern  cover.  I  likened  the 
skin  to  that  drum  which  the  dying  Zisca  ordered  should 
be  made  out  of  his  hide,  to  be  beaten  before  the  hosts 
of  his  people  and  inspire  terror.  Vous  concevez,  I  did 
not  say  to  Lovel  at  breakfast,  as  I  sat  before  the  ghostly 


A   BLACK   SHEEP  287 

musical  instrument,  "  My  dear  fellow,  that  skin  of  Cor- 
dovan leather  belonging  to  your  defunct  Cecilia's  harp 
is  like  the  hide  which,"  &c.;  but  I  confess,  at  first,  I  used 
to  have  a  sort  of  crawly  sensation,  as  of  a  sickly  genteel 
ghost  flitting  about  the  place,  in  an  exceedingly  peevish 
humour,  trying  to  scold  and  command,  and  finding  her 
defunct  voice  couldn't  be  heard— trying  to  re-illumine 
her  extinguished  leers  and  faded  smiles  and  ogles,  and 
finding  no  one  admired  or  took  note.  In  the  grey  of 
the  gloaming,  in  the  twilight  corner  where  stands  the 
shrouded  companion  of  song — what  is  that  white  figure 
flickering  round  the  silent  harp?  Once,  as  we  were 
assembled  in  the  room  at  afternoon  tea,  a  bird,  en- 
tering at  the  open  window,  perched  on  the  instrument. 
Popham  dashed  at  it.  Lovel  was  deep  in  conversa- 
tion upon  the  wine-duties  with  a  Member  of  Parlia- 
ment he  had  brought  down  to  dinner.  Lady  Baker, 
who  was,  if  I  may  use  the  expression,  "jawing," 
as  usual,  and  telling  one  of  her  tremendous  stories  about 
the  Lord  Lieutenant  to  Mr.  Bonnington,  took  no  note  of 
the  incident.  Elizabeth  did  not  seem  to  remark  it :  what 
was  a  bird  on  a  harp  to  her,  but  a  sparrow  perched  on  a 
bit  of  leather-casing!  All  the  ghosts  in  Putney  church- 
yard might  rattle  all  their  bones,  and  would  not  frighten 
that  stout  spirit  I 

I  was  amused  at  a  precaution  which  Bedford  took, 
and  somewhat  alarmed  at  the  distrust  towards  Lady 
Baker  which  he  exhibited,  when,  one  day  on  my  return 
from  tow'n — whither  I  had  made  an  excursion  of  four 
or  five  hours — I  found  my  bedroom  door  locked,  and 
Dick  arrived  with  the  key.  "  He's  wrote  to  say  he's 
coming  this  evening,  and  if  he  had  come  when  you  was 
away.  Lady  B.  was  capable  of  turning  your  things  out. 


288  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

and  putting  his  in,  and  taking  her  oath  she  beheved 
you  was  going  to  leave.  The  long-bows  Lady  B.  do 
pull  are  perfectly  awful,  Mr.  B.!  So  it  was  long-bow 
to  long-bow,  Mr.  Batchelor;  and  I  said  you  had  took 
the  key  in  your  pocket,  not  wishing  to  have  your  papers 
disturbed.  She  tried  the  lawn  window,  but  I  had  bolted 
that,  and  the  Captain  will  have  the  pink  room,  after  all, 
and  must  smoke  up  the  chimney.  I  should  have  liked 
to  see  him,  or  you,  or  any  one  do  it  in  poor  Mrs.  L.'s 
time — I  just  should!" 

During  my  visit  to  London,  I  had  chanced  to  meet 
my  friend  Captain  Fitzb — die,  who  belongs  to  a  dozen 
clubs,  and  knows  something  of  every  man  in  London. 
"Know  anything  of  Clarence  Baker?"  "Of  course  I 
do,"  says  Fitz;  "and  if  you  want  any  renseignement, 
my  dear  fellow,  I  have  the  honour  to  inform  you  that  a 
blacker  little  sheep  does  not  trot  the  London  'pave. 
Wherever  that  ingenious  officer's  name  is  spoken — at 
Tattersall's,  at  his  clubs,  in  his  late  regiments,  in  men's 
society,  in  ladies'  society,  in  that  expanding  and  most 
agreeable  circle  which  you  may  call  no  society  at  all — a 
chorus  of  maledictions  rises  up  at  the  mention  of  Baker. 
Know  anything  of  Clarence  Baker!  JNIy  dear  fellow, 
enough  to  make  your  hair  turn  white,  unless  ( as  I  some- 
times fondly  imagine)  nature  has  already  performed 
that  process,  when  of  course  I  can't  pretend  to  act  upon 
mere  hair-dye."  (The  whiskers  of  the  individual  who 
addressed  me,  innocent,  stared  me  in  the  face  as  he  spoke, 
and  were  dyed  of  the  most  unblushing  purple.)  "  Clar- 
ence Baker,  sir,  is  a  young  man  who  would  have  been 
invaluable  in  Sparta  as  a  warning  against  drunkenness 
and  an  exemplar  of  it.  He  has  helped  the  regimental 
surgeon  to  some  most  interesting  experiments  in  deli- 


A  BLACK   SHEEP  289 

Hum  tremens.  He  is  known,  and  not  in  the  least  trusted, 
in  every  billiard-room  in  Brighton,  Canterbury,  York, 
Sheffield— on  every  pavement  which  has  rung  with  the 
clink  of  dragoon  boot-heels.  By  a  wise  system  of  re- 
voking at  whist  he  has  lost  games  which  have  caused 
not  only  his  partners,  but  his  opponents  and  the  whole 
club,  to  admire  him  and  to  distrust  him:  long  before  and 
since  he  was  of  age,  he  has  written  his  eminent  name  to 
bills  which  have  been  dishonoured,  and  has  nobly  pleaded 
his  minority  as  a  reason  for  declining  to  pay.  From 
the  garrison  towns  where  he  has  been  quartered,  he  has 
carried  away  not  only  the  hearts  of  the  milliners,  but 
their  gloves,  haberdashery,  and  perfumery.  He  has 
had  controversies  with  Cornet  Green,  regarding  horse 
transactions;  disputed  turf  accounts  with  Lieutenant 
Brown;  and  betting  and  backgammon  differences  with 
Captain  Black.  From  all  I  have  heard  he  is  the  worthy 
son  of  his  admirable  mother.  And  I  bet  you  even  on  the 
four  events,  if  you  stay  three  days  in  a  country-house 
with  him— which  appears  to  be  your  present  happy  idea 
—that  he  will  quarrel  with  you,  insult  you,  and  apolo- 
gize ;  that  he  will  intoxicate  himself  more  than  once ;  that 
he  will  offer  to  play  cards  with  you,  and  not  pay  on 
losing  (if  he  wins,  I  perhaps  need  not  state  what  his 
conduct  will  be)  ;  and  that  he  will  try  to  borrow  money 
from  you,  and  most  likely  from  your  servant,  before 
he  goes  away."  So  saying,  the  sententious  Fitz  strutted 
up  the  steps  of  one  of  his  many  club-haunts  in  Pall 
Mall,  and  left  me  forewarned,  and  I  trust  forearmed, 
against  Captain  Clarence  and  all  his  works. 

The  adversary,  when  at  length  I  came  in  sight  of  him, 
did  not  seem  very  formidable.  I  beheld  a  weakly  little 
man  with  Chinese  eyes,  and  pretty  little  feet  and  hands. 


290  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

whose  pallid  countenance  told  of  Finishes  and  Casinos. 
His  little  chest  and  fingers  were  decorated  with  many 
jewels.  A  perfume  of  tobacco  hung  round  him.  His 
little  moustache  was  twisted  with  an  elaborate  gummy 
curl.  I  perceived  that  the  little  hand  which  twirled  the 
moustache  shook  woefully:  and  from  the  little  chest 
there  came  a  cough  surprisingly  loud  and  dismal. 

He  was  lying  on  a  sofa  as  I  entered,  and  the  children 
of  the  house  were  playing  round  him.  "  If  you  are  our 
uncle,  why  didn't  you  come  to  see  us  oftener?"  asks 
Popham. 

"  How  should  I  know  that  you  were  such  uncom- 
monly nice  children?"  asks  the  Captain. 

"  We're  not  nice  to  j^ou,"  saj^s  Popham.  "  Why  do 
you  cough  so?  Mamma  used  to  cough.  And  why  does 
your  hand  shake  so?" 

"My  hand  shakes  because  I  am  ill:  and  I  cough  be- 
cause I'm  ill.  Your  mother  died  of  it,  and  I  dare  say 
I  shall  too." 

"  I  hope  you'll  be  good,  and  repent  before  you  die, 
uncle,  and  I  will  lend  you  some  nice  books,"  says  Cecilia. 

"Oh,  bother  books!"  cries  Pop. 

"And  I  hope  you  II  be  good,  Popham,"  and  "  You 
hold  your  tongue,  miss,"  and  "  I  shall,"  and  "  I  shan't," 
and  "You're  another,"  and  "I'll  tell  Miss  Prior,"— 
"Go  and  tell,  telltale,"-"  Boo  "-"  Boo  "-"  Boo  "- 
"Boo" — and  I  don't  know  what  more  exclamations 
came  tumultuously  and  rapidly  from  these  dear  chil- 
dren, as  their  uncle  lay  before  them,  a  handkerchief 
to  his  mouth,  his  little  feet  high  raised  on  the  sofa 
cushions. 

Captain  Baker  turned  a  little  eye  towards  me,  as  I  en- 
tered the  room,  but  did  not  change  his  easy  and  elegant 


A   BLACK   SHEEP  291 

posture.  When  I  came  near  to  the  sofa  Avhere  he  re- 
posed, he  was  good  enough  to  call  out : 

"Glass  of  sherry!" 

"It's  Mr.  Batchelor;  it  isn't  Bedford,  uncle,"  says 
Cissy. 

"Mr.  Batchelor  ain't  got  any  sherry  in  his  pocket: 
—have  you,  Mr.  Batchelor?  You  ain't  like  old  ]Mrs. 
Prior,  always  pocketing  things,  are  you?"  cries  Pop, 
and  falls  a-laughing  at  the  ludicrous  idea  of  my  being 
mistaken  for  Bedford. 

"Beg  j^our  pardon.  How  should  I  know,  you 
know?"  drawds  the  invalid  on  the  sofa.  "Everybody's 
the  same  now,  you  see." 

"Sir!"  says  I,  and  "sir"  was  all  I  could  say.  The 
fact  is,  I  could  have  replied  with  something  remarkably 
neat  and  cutting,  which  would  have  transfixed  the 
languid  little  jackanapes  who  dared  to  mistake  me  for 
a  footman ;  but,  you  see,  I  only  thought  of  my  repartee 
some  eight  hours  afterwards  when  I  was  lying  in  bed, 
and  I  am  sorry  to  own  that  a  great  number  of  my  best 
honmots  have  been  made  in  that  way.  So,  as  I  had  not 
the  pungent  remark  ready  when  wanted,  I  can't  say  I 
said  it  to  Captain  Baker,  but  I  dare  saj^  I  turned  very 
red,  and  said,  "  Sir! "  and — and  in  fact  that  was  all. 

"You  were  goin'  to  say  somethin'?"  asked  the  Cap- 
tain, affably. 

"You  know  my  friend  Mr.  Fitzboodle,  I  believe?" 
said  I ;  the  fact  is,  I  really  did  not  know  what  to  say. 

"  Some  mistake — think  not." 

"  He  is  a  member  of  the  '  Flag  Club,' "  I  remarked, 
looking  my  young  fellow  hard  in  the  face. 

"  I  ain't.  There's  a  set  of  cads  in  that  club  that  will 
say  anything." 


292  LOVEL    THE    WIDOWER 

"  You  may  not  know  him,  sir,  but  he  seemed  to  know 
you  very  well.  Are  we  to  have  any  tea,  children?"  I 
say,  flinging  myself  down  on  an  easy  chair,  taking  up  a 
magazine,  and  adopting  an  easy  attitude,  though  I  dare 
say  my  face  was  as  red  as  a  turkey-cock's,  and  I  was 
boiling  over  with  rage. 

As  we  had  a  very  good  breakfast  and  a  profuse 
luncheon  at  Shrublands,  of  course  we  could  not  support 
nature  till  dinner-time  without  a  five-o'clock  tea;  and 
this  was  the  meal  for  which  I  pretended  to  ask.  Bed- 
ford, with  his  silver  kettle,  and  his  buttony  satellite, 
presently  brought  in  this  refection,  and  of  course  the 
children  bawled  out  to  him — 

"Bedford— Bedford!  uncle  mistook  Mr.  Batchelor 
for  you." 

"  I  could  not  be  mistaken  for  a  more  honest  man. 
Pop,"  said  I.  And  the  bearer  of  the  tea-urn  gave  me  a 
look  of  gratitude  and  kindness  which,  I  own,  went  far 
to  restore  my  ruffled  equanimity. 

"  Since  you  are  the  butler,  will  you  get  me  a  glass  of 
sherrj^  and  a  biscuit? "  says  the  Captain.  And  Bedford, 
retiring,  returned  presently  with  the  wine. 

The  young  gentleman's  hand  shook  so,  that,  in  order 
to  drink  his  wine,  he  had  to  surprise  it,  as  it  were,  and 
seize  it  with  his  mouth,  when  a  shake  brought  the  glass 
near  his  lips.  He  drained  the  wine,  and  held  out  his 
hand  for  another  glass.    The  hand  was  steadier  now. 

"You  the  man  who  was  here  before?"  asks  the  Cap- 
tain. 

"  Six  years  ago,  when  you  were  here,  sir,"  says  the 
butler. 

"What!  I  ain't  changed,  I  suppose?" 

"  Yes,  you  are,  sir." 


A  BLACK   SHEEP  293 

"  Then,  how  the  dooce  do  you  remember  me?" 

"  You  forgot  to  pay  me  some  money  you  borrowed 
of  me,  one  pound  five,  sir,"  says  Bedford,  whose  eyes 
slyly  turned  in  my  direction. 

And  here,  according  to  her  wont  at  this  meal,  the 
dark-robed  Miss  Prior  entered  the  room.  She  was  com- 
ing forward  with  her  ordinarily  erect  attitude  and  firm 
step,  but  paused  in  her  walk  an  instant,  and  when  she 
came  to  us,  I  thought,  looked  remarkably  pale.  She 
made  a  slight  curtsey,  and  it  must  be  confessed  that 
Captain  Baker  rose  up  from  his  sofa  for  a  moment  when 
she  appeared.  She  then  sat  down,  with  her  back  towards 
him,  turning  towards  herself  the  table  and  its  tea  ap- 
paratus. 

At  this  board  my  Lady  Baker  found  us  assembled 
when  she  returned  from  her  afternoon  drive.  She  flew 
to  her  darling  reprobate  of  a  son.  She  took  his  hand, 
she  smoothed  back  his  hair  from  his  damp  forehead. 
"My  darling  child,"  cries  this  fond  mother,  "what  a 
pulse  you  have  got! " 

"  I  suppose,  because  I've  been  drinking,"  says  the 
prodigal. 

"Why  didn't  you  come  out  driving  with  me?  The 
afternoon  was  lovely ! " 

"To  pay  visits  at  Richmond?  Not  as  I  knows  on, 
ma'am,"  says  the  invalid.  "  Conversation  with  elderly 
ladies  about  poodles,  Bible  societies,  that  kind  of  thing? 
It  must  be  a  doosid  lovely  afternoon  that  w^ould  make 
me  like  that  sort  of  game."  And  here  comes  a  fit  of 
coughing,  over  which  mamma  ejaculates  her  sympathy. 

"Kick — kick — killin'  myself!"  gasps  out  the  Cap- 
tain; "  know  I  am.  No  man  can  lead  my  life,  and  stand 
it.     Dyin'  by  inches!    Dyin'  by  whole  yards,  by  Jo — 


294  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

ho — hove,  I  am!"  Indeed,  he  was  as  bad  in  health  as 
in  morals,  this  graceless  Captain. 

"  That  man  of  Lovel's  seems  a  d insolent  beg- 
gar," he  presently  and  ingenuously  remarks. 

"  Oh,  uncle,  you  mustn't  say  those  words! "  cries  niece 
Cissy. 

"  He's  a  man,  and  may  say  what  he  likes,  and  so  will 
I,  when  I'm  a  man.  Yes,  and  I'll  say  it  now,  too,  if  I 
like,"  cries  INIaster  Popham. 

"Not  to  give  me  pain,  Popham?  Will  you?"  asks 
the  governess. 

On  which  the  boy  says — "Well,  who  wants  to  hurt 
you.  Miss  Prior?" 

And  our  colloquy  ends  by  the  arrival  of  the  man  of 
the  house  from  the  city. 

What  I  have  admired  in  some  dear  women  is  their 
capacity  for  quarrelling  and  for  reconciliation.  As  I 
saw  Lady  Baker  hanging  round  her  son's  neck,  and 
fondling  his  scanty  ringlets,  I  remembered  the  awful 
stories  with  which  in  former  days  she  used  to  entertain 
us  regarding  this  reprobate.  Her  heart  was  pin- 
cushioned  with  his  filial  crimes.  Under  her  chestnut 
front  her  ladyship's  real  head  of  hair  was  grey,  in  con- 
sequence of  his  iniquities.  His  precocious  appetite  had 
devoured  the  greater  part  of  her  jointure.  He  had 
treated  her  many  dangerous  illnesses  with  indifference: 
had  been  the  worst  son,  the  worst  brother,  the  most 
ill-conducted  school-boy,  the  most  immoral  young 
man — the  terror  of  households,  the  Lovelace  of  garrison 
towns,  the  perverter  of  young  officers;  in  fact,  Lady 
Baker  did  not  know  how  she  supported  existence  at 
all  under  the  agony  occasioned  by  his  crimes,  and  it 
was  only  from  the  possession  of  a  more  than  ordinarily 


A   BLACK    SHEEP  295 

strong  sense  of  religion  that  she  was  enabled  to  bear  her 
burden. 

The  Captain  himself  explained  these  alternating  ma- 
ternal caresses  and  quarrels  in  his  easy  way. 

"  Saw  how  the  old  lady  kissed  and  fondled  me? "  says 
he  to  his  brother-in-law.  "Quite  refreshin',  ain't  it? 
Hang  me,  I  thought  she  was  goin'  to  send  me  a  bit  of 
sweetbread  off  her  own  plate.  Came  up  to  my  room 
last  night,  wanted  to  tuck  me  up  in  bed,  and  abused 
mj^  brother  to  me  for  an  hour.  You  see,  when  I'm  in 
favour,  she  always  abuses  Baker;  when  he's  in  favour 
she  abuses  me  to  him.  And  my  sister-in-law,  didn't  she 
give  it  my  sister-in-law!  Oh!  I'll  trouble  you!  And 
poor  Cecilia — why,  hang  me,  ]Mr.  Batchelor,  she  used  to 
go  on — this  bottle's  corked,  I'm  hanged  if  it  isn't — to 
go  on  about  Cecilia,  and  call  her  .  .  .  Hullo!" 

Here  he  was  interrupted  by  our  host,  who  said 
sternly — 

"Will  you  please  to  forget  those  quarrels,  or  not 
mention  them  here?  Will  you  have  more  wine,  Bat- 
chelor?" 

And  Lovel  rises,  and  haughtily  stalks  out  of  the  room. 
To  do  Lovel  justice,  he  had  a  great  contempt  and  dis- 
like for  his  young  brother-in-law%  which,  with  his  best 
magnanimity,  he  could  not  at  all  times  conceal. 

So  our  host  stalks  towards  the  drawing-room,  leaving 
Captain  Clarence  sipping  wine. 

"  Don't  go,  too,"  says  the  Captain.  "  He's  a  con- 
founded rum  fellow,  my  brother-in-law  is.  He's  a 
confounded  ill-conditioned  fellow,  too.  They  always 
are,  you  know,  these  tradesmen  fellows,  these  half-bred 
'uns.  I  used  to  tell  my  sister  so ;  but  she  would  have  him, 
because  he  had  such  lots  of  money,  vou  know.    And  she 


296  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

threw  over  a  f ellar  she  was  very  fond  of ;  and  I  told  her 
she'd  regret  it.  I  told  Lady  B.  she'd  regret  it.  It  was 
all  Lady  B.'s  doing.  She  made  Cissy  throw  the  f ellar 
over.  He  was  a  bad  match,  certainly,  Tom  Mountain 
was;  and  not  a  clever  fellow,  you  know,  or  that  sort  of 
thing;  but,  at  any  rate,  he  was  a  gentleman,  and  better 
than  a  confounded  sugar-baking  beggar  out  RatclifF 
Highway." 

"  You  seem  to  find  that  claret  very  good,"  I  remark, 
speaking,  I  may  say,  Socratically,  to  my  young  friend, 
who  had  been  swallowing  bumper  after  bumper. 

"Claret  good!     Yes,  doosid  good!" 

"Well,  you  see  our  confounded  sugar-baker  gives 
you  his  best." 

"  And  why  shouldn't  he,  hang  him?  Why,  the  fellow 
chokes  with  money.  What  does  it  matter  to  him  how 
much  he  spends  ?  You're  a  poor  man,  I  dare  say.  You 
don't  look  as  if  you  were  over-flush  of  money.  WeU, 
if  you  stood  a  good  dinner,  it  would  be  all  right— I  mean 
it  would  show— you  understand  me,  you  know.  But  a 
sugar-baker  with  ten  thousand  a  year,  what  does  it  mat- 
ter to  him,  bottle  of  claret  more— less? " 

"  Let  us  go  in  to  the  ladies,"  I  say. 

"Go  in  to  mother!  I  don't  want  to  go  in  to  my 
mother,"  cries  out  the  artless  youth.  "And  I  don't 
want  to  go  in  to  the  sugar-baker,  hang  him !  and  I  don't 
want  to  go  in  to  the  children;  and  I'd  rather  have  a  glass 
of  brandy-and-water  with  you,  old  boy.  Here  you! 
What's  your  name?  Bedford!  I  owe  you  five-and^ 
twenty  shillings,  do  I,  old  Bedford?  Give  us  a  glass 
of  Schnaps,  and  I'll  pay  you!  Look  here,  Batchelor. 
I  hate  that  sugar-baker.  Two  years  ago,  I  drew  a  bill 
on  him,  and  he  wouldn't  pay  it — j^erhaps  he  would  have 


A  BLACK   SHEEP  297 

paid  it,  but  my  sister  wouldn't  let  him.  And,  I  say, 
shall  we  go  and  have  a  cigar  in  your  room?  My 
mother's  been  abusing  you  to  me  like  fun  this  morning. 
She  abuses  everybody.  She  used  to  abuse  Cissy.  Cissy 
used  to  abuse  her — used  to  fight  like  two  cats    .    .    .    ." 

And  if  I  narrate  this  conversation,  dear  Spartan 
youth !  if  I  show  thee  this  Helot  maundering  in  his  cups, 
it  is  that  from  his  odious  example  thou  may'st  learn  to 
be  moderate  in  the  use  of  thine  own.  Has  the  enemy 
who  has  entered  thy  mouth  ever  stolen  away  thy  brains? 
Has  wine  ever  caused  thee  to  blab  secrets;  to  utter 
egotisms  and  follies?  Beware  of  it.  Has  it  ever  been 
thy  friend  at  the  end  of  the  hard  day's  work,  the  cheery 
companion  of  thy  companions,  the  promoter  of  har- 
mony, kindness,  harmless  social  pleasure?  Be  thankful 
for  it.  Three  years  since,  when  the  comet  was  blazing 
in  the  autumnal  sky,  I  stood  on  the  chateau-steps  of  a 
great  claret  proprietor.  "  Boirai-je  de  ton  vin,  O 
comete?"  I  said,  addressing  the  luminary  with  the  flam- 
ing tail.  "  Shall  those  generous  bunches  which  you 
ripen  yield  their  juices  for  me  7norituro?"  It  was  a 
solemn  thought.  Ah!  my  dear  brethren!  who  knows 
the  Order  of  the  Fates?  When  shall  we  pass  the 
Gloomy  Gates?  Which  of  us  goes,  which  of  us  waits 
to  drink  those  famous  Fifty -eights?  A  sermon,  upon 
my  word!  And  pray  why  not  a  little  homily  on  an 
autumn  eve  over  a  purple  cluster?  ...  If  that 
rickety  boy  had  only  drunk  claret,  I  warrant  you  his 
tongue  would  not  have  babbled,  his  hand  would  not  have 
shaken,  his  wretched  little  brain  and  body  would  not 
have  reeled  with  fever. 

"  'Gad,"  said  he  next  day  to  me,  "  cut  again  last 
night.     Have  an  idea  that  I  abused  Lovel.      When  I 


298  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

have  a  little  wine  on  board,  always  speak  my  mind, 
don't  you  know?  Last  time  I  was  here  in  my  poor  sis- 
ter's time,  said  somethin'  to  her,  don't  quite  know  what 
it  was,  somethin'  confoundedly  true  and  unpleasant  I 
dare  say.  I  think  it  was  about  a  fellow  she  used  to  go 
on  with  before  she  married  the  sugar-baker.  And  I  got 
orders  to  quit,  by  Jove,  sir— neck  and  crop,  sir,  and  no 
mistake!  And  we  gave  it  one  another  over  the  stairs. 
Oh,  my!  we  did  pitch  in!— And  that  was  the  last  time 
I  ever  saw  Cecilia — give  you  my  word.  A  doosid  un- 
forgiving woman  my  poor  sister  was,  and  between  you 
and  me,  Batchelor,  as  great  a  flirt  as  ever  threw  a  fellar 
over.  You  should  have  heard  her  and  my  Lady  B.  go 
on,  that's  all! — Well,  mamma,  are  you  going  out  for  a 
drive  in  the  coachy-poachy?— Not  as  I  knows  on,  thank 
you,  as  I  before  had  the  honour  to  observe.  Mr.  Batch- 
elor and  me  are  going  to  play  a  little  game  at  billiards." 
We  did,  and  I  won;  and,  from  that  day  to  this,  have 
never  been  paid  my  little  winnings. 

On  the  day  after  the  doughty  captain's  arrival.  Miss 
Prior,  in  whose  face  I  had  remarked  a  great  expression 
of  gloom  and  care,  neither  made  her  appearance  at 
breakfast  nor  at  the  children's  dinner.  "Miss  Prior 
was  a  little  unwell,"  Lady  Baker  said,  with  an  air  of 
most  perfect  satisfaction.  "  Mr.  Drencher  will  come  to 
see  her  this  afternoon,  and  prescribe  for  her,  I  dare  say," 
adds  her  ladyship,  nodding  and  winking  a  roguish  eye 
at  me.  I  was  at  a  loss  to  understand  what  was  the  point 
of  humour  which  amused  Lady  B.,  until  she  herself 
explained  it. 

"  My  good  sir,"  she  said,  "  I  think  INIiss  Prior  is  not 
at  all  averse  to  being  ill."     And  the  nods  recommenced. 

"As  how?"  I  ask. 


A  BLACK   SHEEP  299 

"  To  being  ill,  or  at  least  to  calling  in  the  medical 
man." 

"Attachment  between  governess  and  Sawbones  I 
make  bold  for  to  presume?"  says  the  Captain. 

"  Precisely,  Clarence — a  very  fitting  match.  I  saw 
the  aiFair,  even  before  Miss  Prior  owned  it — that  is  to 
say,  she  has  not  denied  it.  She  says  she  can't  afford 
to  marry,  that  she  has  children  enough  at  home  in  her 
brothers  and  sisters.  She  is  a  well-principled  young 
woman,  and  does  credit,  INIr.  Batchelor,  to  your  recom- 
mendation, and  the  education  she  has  received  from  her 
uncle,  the  Master  of  St.  Boniface." 

"Cissy  to  school;  Pop  to  Eton;  and  Miss  What-d'- 
you-call  to  grind  the  pestle  in  Sawbones'  back-shop:  I 
see! "  says  Captain  Clarence.  "  He  seems  a  low,  vulgar 
blackguard,  that  Sawbones." 

"  Of  course,  my  love,  what  can  you  expect  from  that 
sort  of  person?"  asks  mamma,  whose  own  father  was  a 
small  attorney  in  a  small  Irish  town. 

"  I  wish  I  had  his  confounded  good  health,"  cries 
Clarence,  coughing. 

"My  poor  darling!"  says  mamma. 

I  said  nothing.  And  so  Elizabeth  was  engaged  to 
that  great,  broad-shouldered,  red-whiskered  young  sur- 
geon with  the  huge  appetite  and  the  dubious  h's !  Well, 
why  not?  What  was  it  to  me?  Why  shouldn't  she  marry 
him?  Was  he  not  an  honest  man,  and  a  fitting  match 
for  her?  Yes.  Very  good.  Only  if  I  do  love  a  bird 
or  flower  to  glad  me  with  its  dark  blue  eye,  it  is  the  first 
to  fade  away.  If  I  have  a  partiality  for  a  young  gazelle 
it  is  the  first  to — psha!  What  have  I  to  do  with  this 
namby-pamby?  Can  the  heart  that  has  truly  loved  ever 
forget,  and  doesn't  it  as  truly  love  on  to  the — stuff! 


300  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

I  am  past  the  age  of  such  follies.  I  might  have  made 
a  woman  happy:  I  think  I  should.  But  the  fugacious 
years  have  lapsed,  my  Posthumus!  My  waist  is  now 
a  good  bit  wider  than  my  chest,  and  it  is  decreed  that 
I  shall  be  alone ! 

My  tone,  then,  when  next  I  saw  Elizabeth,  was  sor- 
rowful—not angry.  Drencher,  the  young  doctor,  came 
punctually  enough,  you  may  be  sure,  to  look  after  his 
patient.  Little  Pinhorn,  the  children's  maid,  led  the 
young  practitioner  smiling  towards  the  schoolroom 
regions.  His  creaking  highlows  sprang  swiftly  up  the 
stairs.  I  happened  to  be  in  the  hall,  and  surveyed  him 
with  a  grim  pleasure.  "  Now  he  is  in  the  schoolroom," 
I  thought.  "Now  he  is  taking  her  hand— it  is  very 
white — and  feeling  her  pulse.  And  so  on,  and  so  on. 
Surely,  surely  Pinhorn  remains  in  the  room?"  I  am 
sitting  on  a  hall-table  as  I  muse  plaintively  on  these 
things,  and  gaze  up  the  stairs  by  which  the  Hakeem 
(great  carroty-whiskered  cad!)  has  passed  into  the 
sacred  precincts  of  the  harem.  As  I  gaze  up  the  stair, 
another  door  opens  into  the  hall ;  a  scowling  face  peeps 
through  that  door,  and  looks  up  the  stair,  too.  'Tis 
Bedford,  who  has  slid  out  of  his  pantry,  and  watches  the 
doctor.  And  thou,  too,  my  poor  Bedford!  Oh!  the 
whole  world  throbs  with  vain  heart-pangs,  and  tosses 
and  heaves  with  longing,  unfulfilled  desires !  All  night, 
and  all  over  the  world,  bitter  tears  are  dropping  as  reg- 
ular as  the  dew,  and  cruel  memories  are  haunting  the 
pillow.  Close  my  hot  eyes,  kind  Sleep!  Do  not  visit 
it,  dear  delusive  images  out  of  the  Past!  Often  your 
figure  shimmers  through  my  dreams,  Glorvina.  Not  as 
you  are  now,  the  stout  mother  of  many  children — you 
always  had  an  alarming  likeness  to  your  own  mother. 


A  BLACK  SHEEP  301 

Glorvina— but  as  you  were— slim,  black-haired,  blue- 
eyed — when  your  carnation  lips  warbled  the  "Vale  of 
Avoca"  or  the  "Angel's  Whisper."  "What!"  I  say 
then,  looking  up  the  stair,  "  am  I  absolutely  growing 
jealous  of  yon  apothecary? — O  fool!"  And  at  this 
juncture,  out  peers  Bedford's  face  from  the  pantry,  and 
I  see  he  is  jealous  too.  I  tie  my  shoe  as  I  sit  on  the  table ; 
I  don't  affect  to  notice  Bedford  in  the  least  (who,  in 
fact,  pops  his  own  head  back  again  as  soon  as  he  sees 
mine).  I  take  my  wideawake  from  the  peg,  set  it  on 
one  side  my  head,  and  strut  whistling  out  of  the  hall- 
door.  I  stretch  over  Putney  Heath,  and  my  spirit 
resumes  its  tranquillity. 

I  sometimes  keep  a  little  journal  of  my  proceedings, 
and  on  referring  to  its  pages,  the  scene  rises  before  me 
pretty  clearly  to  which  the  brief  notes  allude.  On  this 
day  I  find  noted:  '^Friday,  July  14. — B.  came  down 
to-day.  Seems  to  require  a  great  deal  of  attendance 
from  Dr.— Row  between  dowagers  after  dinner."  "  B.," 
I  need  not  remark,  is  Bessy.  "  Dr.,"  of  course,  you 
know.  "  Row  between  dowagers  "  means  a  battle  royal 
between  Mrs.  Bonnington  and  Lady  Baker,  such  as  not 
unfrequently  raged  under  the  kindly  Lovel's  roof. 

Lady  Baker's  gigantic  menial  Bulkeley  condescended 
to  wait  at  the  family  dinner  at  Shrublands,  when  per- 
force he  had  to  put  himself  under  Mr.  Bedford's  orders. 
Bedford  would  gladly  have  dispensed  with  the  London 
footman,  over  whose  calves,  he  said,  he  and  his  boy  were 
always  tumbling;  but  Lady  Baker's  dignity  would  not 
allow  her  to  part  from  her  own  man;  and  her  good- 
natured  son-in-law  allowed  her,  and  indeed  almost  all 
other  persons,  to  have  their  own  way.  I  have  reason  to 
fear  Mr.  Bulkeley 's  morals  were  loose.     Mrs.  Bonning- 


302  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

ton  had  a  special  horror  of  him;  his  behaviour  in  the 
village  public-houses,  where  his  powder  and  plush  were 
for  ever  visible — his  freedom  of  conduct  and  conversa- 
tion before  the  good  lady's  nurse  and  parlour-maids — 
provoked  her  anger  and  suspicion.  JNIore  than  once, 
she  whispered  to  me  her  loathing  of  this  flour-be- 
sprinkled monster;  and,  as  much  as  such  a  gentle  crea- 
ture could,  she  showed  her  dislike  to  him  bj'^  her  beha- 
viour. The  flunkey's  solemn  equanimity  was  not  to  be 
disturbed  by  any  such  feeble  indications  of  displeasure. 
From  his  powdered  height,  he  looked  down  upon  Mrs. 
Bonnington,  and  her  esteem  or  her  dislike  was  beneath 
him. 

Now  on  this  Friday  night  the  14th,  Captain  Clarence 
had  gone  to  pass  the  day  in  town,  and  our  Bessy  made 
her  appearance  again,  the  doctor's  prescriptions  having, 
I  suppose,  agreed  with  her.  Mr.  Bulkeley,  who  was 
handing  coffee  to  the  ladies,  chose  to  offer  none  to  Miss 
Prior,  and  I  was  amused  when  I  saw  Bedford's  heel 
scrunch  down  on  the  flunkey's  right  foot,  as  he  pointed 
towards  the  governess.  The  oaths  which  Bulkeley  had 
to  devour  in  silence  must  have  been  frightful.  To  do 
the  gallant  fellow  justice,  I  think  he  would  have  died 
rather  than  speak  before  company  in  a  drawing-room. 
He  limped  up  and  offered  the  refreshment  to  the  young 
lady,  who  bowed  and  declined  it. 

"  Frederick,"  Mrs.  Bonnington  begins,  when  the 
coffee-ceremony  is  over,  "now  the  servants  are  gone,  I 
must  scold  you  about  the  waste  at  your  table,  my  dear. 
What  was  the  need  of  opening  that  great  bottle  of 
champagne?  Lady  Baker  only  takes  two  glasses.  Mr. 
Batchelor  doesn't  touch  it."  (No,  thank  you,  my  dear 
Mrs.  Bonnington:  too  old  a  stager.)  "Why  not  have 
a  little  bottle  instead  of  that  great,  large,  immense  one? 


A  BLACK  SHEEP  303 

Bedford  is  a  teetotaller.  I  suppose  it  is  that  London 
footman  who  likes  it" 

"  INIy  dear  mother,  I  haven't  really  ascertained  his 
tastes,"  saj'S  Lovel. 

"Then  why  not  tell  Bedford  to  open  a  pint,  dear?" 
pursues  mamma. 

"  Oh,  Bedford — Bedford,  we  must  not  mention  hijn^ 
Mrs.  Bonnington!"  cries  Lady  Baker.  "Bedford  is 
faultless.  Bedford  has  the  keys  of  everything.  Bed- 
ford is  not  to  be  controlled  in  anything.  Bedford  is  to 
be  at  liberty  to  be  rude  to  my  servant." 

"  Bedford  was  admirably  kind  in  his  attendance  on 
your  daughter,  Lady  Baker,"  says  Lovel,  his  brow 
darkening:  "and  as  for  your  man,  I  should  think  he 
was  big  enough  to  protect  himself  from  any  rudeness 
of  poor  Dick!"  The  good  fellow  had  been  angry  for 
one  moment,  at  the  next  he  was  all  for  peace  and 
conciliation. 

Lady  Baker  puts  on  her  superfine  air.  With  that 
air  she  had  often  awe-stricken  good,  simple  Mrs.  Bon- 
nington; and  she  loved  to  use  it  whenever  city  folks  or 
humble  people  were  present.  You  see  she  thought  her- 
self your  superior  and  mine,  as  de  par  le  monde  there 
are  many  artless  Lady  Bakers  who  do.  "  My  dear 
Frederick!"  says  Lady  B.  then,  putting  on  her  best 
]\Iayf air  manner,  "  excuse  me  for  saying,  but  you  don't 
know  the — the  class  of  servant  to  which  Bulkeley  be- 
longs. I  had  him  as  a  great  favour  from  Lord  Tod- 
dleby's.  That — that  class  of  servant  is  not  generally 
accustomed  to  go  out  single." 

"  Unless  they  are  two  behind  a  carriage-perch  they 
pine  away,  I  suppose,"  remarks  Mr.  Lovel,  "  as  one 
love-bird  does  without  his  mate." 

"  No  doubt— no  doubt,"  says  Lady  B.,  who  does  not 


304  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

in  the  least  understand  him;  "I  only  say  you  are  not 
accustomed  here— in  this  kind  of  establishment,  you 
understand — to  that  class  of — " 

But  here  Mrs.  Bonnington  could  contain  her  wrath 
no  more.  "Lady  Baker!"  cries  that  injured  mother, 
"is  my  son's  estabhshment  not  good  enough  for  any 
powdered  wretch  in  England?  Is  the  house  of  a  Brit- 
ish merchant — " 

"My  dear  creature— my  dear  creature!"  interposes 
her  ladyship,  "  it  is  the  house  of  a  British  merchant,  and 
a  most  comfortable  house  too." 

"  Yes,  as  you  find  it''  remarks  mamma. 

"  Yes,  as  I  find  it,  when  I  come  to  take  care  of  that 
dejmrted  angeVs  children,  Mrs.  Bonnington!  "— (Lady 
B.  here  indicates  the  Cecihan  effigy)— "of  that  dear 
sera23h's  orphans,  Mrs.  Bonnington!  You  cannot. 
You  have  other  duties— other  children— a  husband, 
whom  you  have  left  at  home  in  delicate  health,  and 
who-" 

"Lady  Baker!"  exclaims  Mrs.  Bonnington,  "no  one 
shall  say  I  don't  take  care  of  my  dear  husband!" 

"My  dear  Lady  Baker!— my  dear— dear  mother!" 
cries  Lovel,  cplore,  and  whimpers  aside  to  me,  "  They 
spar  in  this  way  every  night,  when  we're  alone.  It's 
too  bad,  ain't  it.  Batch?" 

"  I  say  you  do  take  care  of  Mr.  Bonnington,"  Baker 
blandly  resumes  (she  has  hit  Mrs.  Bonnington  on  the 
raw  place,  and  smilingly  proceeds  to  thong  again)  :  "  I 
say  you  do  take  care  of  your  husband,  my  dear  creature, 
and  that  is  why  you  can't  attend  to  Frederick!  And 
as  he  is  of  a  very  easy  temper,— except  sometimes  with 
his  poor  Cecilia's  mother,— he  allows  all  his  tradesmen 
to  cheat  him;  all  his  servants  to  cheat  him;  Bedford  to 


A  BLACK  SHEEP  305 

be  rude  to  everybody ;  and  if  to  me,  why  not  to  my  ser- 
vant Bulkeley,  with  whom  Lord  Toddleby's  groom  of 
the  chambers  gave  me  the  very  highest  character?" 

Mrs.  Bonnington  in  a  great  flurry  broke  in  by  saying 
she  was  surprised  to  hear  that  noblemen  had  grooms  in 
their  chambers:  and  she  thought  they  were  much  better 
in  the  stables :  and  when  they  dined  with  Captain  HufF, 
you  know,  Frederick,  his  man  always  brought  such  a 
dreadful  smell  of  the  stable  in  with  him,  that —  Here 
she  paused.  Baker's  eye  was  on  her;  and  that  dowager 
was  grinning  a  cruel  triumph. 

"He I — he!  You  mistake,  my  good  Mrs.  Bonning- 
ton!" says  her  ladyship.  "  Your  poor  mother  mistakes, 
my  dear  Frederick.  You  have  lived  in  a  quiet  and  most 
respectable  sphere,  but  not,  you  understand,  not — " 

"Not  what,  pray.  Lady  Baker?  We  have  lived  in 
this  neighbourhood  twenty  years:  in  my  late  husband's 
time,  when  we  saw  a  great  deal  of  company,  and  this 
dear  Frederick  was  a  boy  at  Westminster  School.  And 
we  have  j^o^id  for  everything  we  have  had  for  twenty 
years ;  and  we  have  not  owed  a  penny  to  any  tradesman. 
And  we  may  not  have  had  powdered  footmen,  six  feet 
high,  impertinent  beasts,  who  were  rude  to  all  the  maids 
in  the  place.  Don't— I  will  speak,  Frederick!  But 
servants  who  loved  us,  and  who  were  paid  their  wages, 
and  who— o — ho — ho — ho!" 

Wipe  your  eyes,  dear  friends!  out  with  all  your 
pocket-handkerchiefs.  I  protest  I  cannot  bear  to  see 
a  woman  in  distress.  Of  course  Fred  Lovel  runs  to 
console  his  dear  old  mother,  and  vows  Lady  Baker 
meant  no  harm. 

"Meant  harm!  My  dear  Frederick,  what  harm  can 
I  mean?     I  only  said  your  poor  mother  did  not  seem 


306  LOVEL   THE    WIDOWER 

to  know  what  a  groom  of  the  chambers  was!      How 
should  she?" 

"Come— come,"  says  Frederick,  "enough  of  this! 
]Miss  Prior,  will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  give  us  a  little 
music?" 

Miss  Prior  was  playing  Beethoven  at  the  piano,  very 
solemnly  and  finely,  when  our  Black  Sheep  returned  to 
this  quiet  fold,  and,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  in  a  very  riotous 
condition.  The  brilliancy  of  his  eye,  the  purple  flush  on 
his  nose,  the  unsteady  gait,  and  uncertain  tone  of  voice, 
told  tales  of  Captain  Clarence,  who  stumbled  over  more 
than  one  chair  before  he  found  a  seat  near  me. 

"Quite  right,  old  boy,"  says  he,  winking  at  me. 
"  Cut  again— dooshid  good  fellosh.  Better  than  being 
along  with  you  shtoopid-old-fogish."  And  he  began  to 
warble  wild  "  Fol-de-rol-lolls  "  in  an  insane  accompani- 
ment to  the  music. 

"  By  heavens,  this  is  too  bad! "  growls  Lovel.  "  Lady 
Baker,  let  your  big  man  carry  your  son  to  bed.  Thank 
you.  Miss  Prior!" 

At  a  final  yell,  which  the  unlucky  young  scapegrace 
gave,  Elizabeth  stopped,  and  rose  from  the  piano,  look- 
ing very  pale.  She  made  her  curtsey,  and  was  depart- 
ing, when  the  wretched  young  captain  sprang  up, 
looked  at  her,  and  sank  back  on  the  sofa  with  another 
wild  laugh.  Bessy  fled  away  scared,  and  white  as  a 
sheet. 

"Take  the  brute  to  bed!"  roars  the  master  of  the 
house,  in  great  wrath.  And  scapegrace  was  conducted 
to  his  apartment,  whither  he  went  laughing  wildly,  and 
calling  out,  "Come  on,  old  sh-sh-shugar-baker!" 

The  morning  after  this  fine  exhibition,  Captain  Clar- 
ence Baker's  mamma  announced  to  us  that  her  poor 


A  BLACK  SHEEP  307 

dear  suffering  boy  was  too  ill  to  come  to  breakfast,  and 
I  believe  he  prescribed  for  himself  devilled  drmnstick 
and  soda-water,  of  which  he  partook  in  his  bedroom. 
Lovel,  seldom  angry,  was  violently  wroth  with  his 
brother-in-law ;  and,  almost  always  polite,  was  at  break- 
fast scarcely  civil  to  Lady  Baker.  I  am  bound  to  say 
that  female  abused  her  position.  She  appealed  to 
Cecilia's  picture  a  great  deal  too  much  during  the  course 
of  breakfast.  She  hinted,  she  sighed,  she  waggled  her 
head  at  me,  and  spoke  about  "  that  angel "  in  the  most 
tragic  manner.  Angel  is  all  very  well:  but  j^our  angel 
brought  in  a  tout  propos;  your  departed  blessing  called 
out  of  her  grave  ever  so  many  times  a  day ;  when  grand- 
mamma wants  to  carry  a  point  of  her  own;  when  the 
children  are  naughty,  or  noisy;  when  papa  betrays  a 
flickering  inclination  to  dine  at  his  club,  or  to  bring  home 
a  bachelor  friend  or  two  to  Shrublands;  —  I  say  your 
angel  ahvays  dragged  in  by  the  wings  into  the  conver- 
sation loses  her  effect.  No  man's  heart  put  on  wider 
crape  than  Lovel's  at  Cecilia's  loss.  Considering  the 
circumstances,  his  grief  was  most  creditable  to  him :  but 
at  breakfast,  at  lunch,  about  Bulkeley  the  footman, 
about  the  barouche  or  the  phaeton,  or  any  trumpery 
domestic  perplexity,  to  have  a  Dcus  intersit  was  too 
much.  And  I  observed,  with  some  inward  satisfaction, 
that  when  Baker  uttered  her  pompous  funereal  phrases, 
rolled  her  eyes  up  to  the  ceiling,  and  appealed  to  that 
quarter,  the  children  ate  their  jam  and  quarrelled  and 
kicked  their  little  shins  under  the  table,  Lovel  read  his 
paper  and  looked  at  his  watch  to  see  if  it  was  omnibus 
time ;  and  Bessy  made  the  tea,  quite  undisturbed  by  the 
old  lady's  tragical  prattle. 

When  Baker  described  her  son's  fearful  cough  and 


308  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

dreadfully  feverish  state,  I  said,  "  Surely,  Lady  Baker, 
Mr.  Drencher  had  better  be  sent  for;"  and  I  suppose 
I  uttered  the  disgusting  dissyllable  Drencher  with  a  fine 
sarcastic  accent;  for  once,  just  once,  Bessy's  grey  eyes 
rose  through  the  spectacles  and  met  mine  with  a  glance 
of  unutterable  sadness,  then  calmly  settled  down  on  to 
the  slop-basin  again,  or  the  urn,  in  which  her  pale  fea- 
tures, of  course,  were  odiously  distorted. 

"  You  will  not  bring  anybody  home  to  dinner,  Fred- 
erick, in  my  poor  boy's  state? "  asks  Lady  B. 

"He  may  stay  in  his  bedroom  I  suppose,"  replies 
Lovel. 

"He  is  Cecilia's  brother,  Frederick!"  cries  the  lady. 

"  Conf  — "  Lovel  was  beginning.  What  was  he  about 
to  say? 

"  If  you  are  going  to  confound  your  angel  in  heaven, 
I  have  nothing  to  say,  sir! "  cries  the  mother  of  Clarence. 

"Parbleu,  madame!"  cried  Lovel,  in  French;  "if  he 
were  not  my  wife's  brother,  do  you  think  I  would  let 
him  stay  here?" 

"Parly  Fran9ais?  Oui,  oui,  oui!"  cries  Pop.  "I 
know  what  Pa  means!" 

"And  so  do  I  know.  And  I  shall  lend  uncle  Clar- 
ence some  books  which  Mr.  Bonnington  gave  me, 
and-" 

"Hold  your  tongue  all!"  shouts  Lovel,  with  a  stamp 
of  his  foot. 

"  You  will,  perhaps,  have  the  great  kindness  to  allow 
me  the  use  of  your  carriage— or,  at  least,  to  wait  here 
until  my  poor  suffering  boy  can  be  moved,  Mr.  Lovel?" 
says  Lady  B.,  with  the  airs  of  a  martyr. 

Lovel  rang  the  bell.  "  The  carriage  for  Lady  Baker 
—at  her  ladyship's  hour,  Bedford:  and  the  cart  for  her 


A  BLACK  SHEEP  309 

luggage.  Her  ladyship  and  Captain  Baker  are  going 
away." 

"  I  have  lost  one  child,  Mr.  Lovel,  whom  some  people 
seem  to  forget.  I  am  not  going  to  murder  another! 
I  will  not  leave  this  house,  sir,  unless  you  drive  me  from 
it  by  force  J  until  the  medical  man  has  seen  my  boy!" 
And  here  she  and  sorrow  sat  down  again.  She  was 
always  giving  warning.  She  was  always  fitting  the 
halter  and  traversing  the  cart,  was  Lady  B.,  but  she 
for  ever  declined  to  drop  the  handkerchief  and  have 
the  business  over.  I  saw  by  a  little  shrug  in  Bessy's 
shoulders,  what  the  governess's  views  were  of  the 
matter:  and,  in  a  word,  Lady  B.  no  more  went  away 
on  this  day,  than  she  had  done  on  forty  previous  days 
when  she  announced  her  intention  of  going.  She  would 
accept  benefits,  you  see,  but  then  she  insulted  her  bene- 
factors, and  so  squared  accounts. 

That  great  healthy,  florid,  scarlet-whiskered  medical 
wretch  came  at  about  twelve,  saw  Mr.  Baker  and  pre- 
scribed for  him :  and  of  course  he  must  have  a  few  words 
with  Miss  Prior,  and  inquire  into  the  state  of  her  health. 
Just  as  on  the  previous  occasion,  I  happened  to  be  in  the 
hall  when  Drencher  went  upstairs;  Bedford  happened 
to  be  looking  out  of  his  pantry-door :  I  burst  into  a  yell 
of  laughter  when  I  saw  Dick's  livid  face — the  sight 
somehow  suited  my  savage  soul. 

No  sooner  was  Medicus  gone  than  Bessy,  grave  and 
pale,  in  bonnet  and  spectacles,  came  sliding  downstairs. 
I  do  not  mean  down  the  banister,  which  was  Pop's 
favourite  method  of  descent;  but  slim,  tall,  noiseless, 
in  a  nunlike  calm,  she  swept  down  the  steps.  Of  course, 
I  followed  her.  And  there  was  Master  Bedford's  nose 
peeping  through  the  pantry-door  at  us,  as  we  went  out 


310  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

with, the  children.  Pray,  what  business  of  his  was  it  to 
be  always  watching  anybody  who  walked  with  Miss 
Prior? 

"  So,  Bessy,"  I  said,  "what  report  does  Mr.— hem!— 
Mr.  Drencher — give  of  the  interesting  invalid?" 

"  Oh,  the  most  horrid !  He  says  that  Captain  Baker 
has  several  times  had  a  dreadful  disease  brought  on  by 
drinking,  and  that  he  is  mad  when  he  has  it.  He  has 
delusions,  sees  demons,  when  he  is  in  this  state — wants 
to  be  watched." 

"Drencher  tells  you  everything?" 

She  says  meekly:  "  He  attends  us  when  we  are  ill." 

I  remark,  with  fine  irony:  "He  attends  the  whole 
family:  he  is  always  coming  to  Shrublands! " 

"  He  comes  very  often,"  Miss  Prior  says  gravely. 

"And  do  you  mean  to  say,  Bessy,"  I  cry,  madly  cut- 
ting off  two  or  three  heads  of  yellow  broom  with  my 
stick — "  do  you  mean  to  say  a  fellow  like  that,  who  drops 
his  h's  about  the  room,  is  a  welcome  visitor? " 

"  I  should  be  very  ungrateful  if  he  were  not  welcome, 
Mr.  Batchelor,"  says  Miss  Prior.  "And  call  me  by  my 
surname,  please — and  he  has  taken  care  of  all  my  family 
-and-" 

"And,  of  course,  of  course,  of  course.  Miss  Prior!" 
say  I,  brutally;  "  and  this  is  the  way  the  world  wags;  and 
this  is  the  way  we  are  ill,  and  are  cured;  and  we  are 
grateful  to  the  doctor  that  cures  us! " 

She  nods  her  grave  head.  "  You  used  to  be  kinder  to 
me  once,  Mr.  Batchelor,  in  old  days — in  your — in  my 
time  of  trouble !  Yes,  my  dear,  that  is  a  beautiful  bit  of 
broom!  Oh,  what  a  fine  butterfly! "  (Cecilia  scours  the 
plain  after  the  butterfly.)  "You  used  to  be  kinder  to 
me  once — when  we  were  both  unhappy." 

"  I  was  unhappy,"  I  say,  "  but  I  survived.    I  was  ill, 


A  BLACK  SHEEP  311 

but  I  am  now  pretty  well,  thank  you.  I  was  jilted  by  a 
false,  heartless  woman.  Do  you  suppose  there  are  no 
other  heartless  women  in  the  world? "  And  I  am  confi- 
dent, if  Bessy's  breast  had  not  been  steel,  the  daggers 
which  darted  out  from  my  eyes  would  have  bored  fright- 
ful stabs  in  it. 

But  she  shook  her  head,  and  looked  at  me  so  sadly  that 
my  eye-daggers  tumbled  down  to  the  ground  at  once; 
for  you  see,  though  I  am  a  jealous  Turk,  I  am  a  very 
easily  appeased  jealous  Turk;  and  if  I  had  been  Blue- 
beard, and  my  wife,  just  as  I  was  going  to  decapitate 
her,  had  lifted  up  her  head  from  the  block  and  cried  a 
little,  I  should  have  dropped  my  scimitar,  and  said, 
"  Come,  come,  Fatima,  never  mind  for  the  present  about 
that  key  and  closet  business,  and  I'll  chop  your  head  off 
some  other  morning."  I  say  Bessy  disarmed  me.  Pooh! 
I  say,  women  will  make  a  fool  of  me  to  the  end.  All !  ye 
gracious  Fates!  Cut  my  thread  of  life  ere  it  grow  too 
long.  Suppose  I  were  to  live  till  seventy,  and  some  little 
wretch  of  a  woman  were  to  set  her  cap  at  me?  She 
would  catch  me — I  know  she  would.  All  the  males  of 
our  family  have  been  spoony  and  soft,  to  a  degree  per- 
fectly ludicrous  and  despicable  to  contemplate —  Well, 
Bessy  Prior,  putting  a  hand  out,  looked  at  me,  and 
said — 

"  You  are  the  oldest  and  best  friend  I  have  ever  had, 
Mr.  Batchelor— the  only  friend." 

"Am  I,  Ehzabeth? "  I  gasp,  with  a  beating  heart. 

"  Cissy  is  running  back  with  a  butterfly."  ( Our  hands 
unlock.)  "  Don't  you  see  the  difficulties  of  my  position? 
Don't  you  know  that  ladies  are  often  jealous  of  govern- 
esses; and  that  unless — unless  they  imagined  I  was — I 
was  favourable  to  Mr.  Drencher,  who  is  very  good  and 
kind— the  ladies  of  Shrublands  might  not  like  my  re- 


312  LOVEL    THE    WIDOWER 

maining  alone  in  the  house  with— with— you  under- 
stand?" A  moment  the  eyes  look  over  the  spectacles: 
at  the  next,  the  meek  bonnet  bows  down  towards  the 
ground. 

I  wonder  did  she  hear  the  bump— bumping  of  my 
heart!  O  heart!— O  wounded  heart!  did  I  ever  think 
thou  wouldst  bump— bump  again?  "  Egl— Egl— iza- 
beth,"  I  say,  choking  with  emotion,  "  do,  do,  do  you— te 
—  tell  me— you  don't— don't— don't  —  lo— love  that 
apothecary?" 

She  shrugs  her  shoulder— her  charming  shoulder. 

"And  if,"  I  hotly  continue,  "if  a  gentleman— if  a 
man  of  mature  age  certainly,  but  who  has  a  kind  heart 
and  four  hundred  a  year  of  his  own— were  to  say  to  you, 
'  Elizabeth !  will  you  bid  the  flowers  of  a  blighted  life  to 
bloom  again?— Elizabeth!  will  you  soothe  a  wounded 
heart?'-" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Batchelor!"  she  sighed,  and  then  added 
quickly,  "  Please,  don't  take  my  hand.    Here's  Pop." 

And  that  dear  child  (bless  him!)  came  up  at  the  mo- 
ment, saying,  "  Oh,  Miss  Prior,  look  here!  I've  got  such 
a  jolly  big  toadstool ! "  And  next  came  Cissy,  with  a  con- 
founded butterfly.  O  Richard  the  Third!  Haven't  you 
been  maligned  because  you  smothered  two  little  nui- 
sances in  a  Tower?  What  is  to  prove  to  me  that  you 
did  not  serve  the  little  brutes  right,  and  that  you  weren't 
a  most  humane  man?  Darling  Cissy  coming  up,  then, 
in  her  dear,  charming  way,  says,  "  You  shan't  take  Mr. 
Batchelor's  hand,  you  shall  take  iriy  hand!"  And  she 
tosses  up  her  little  head,  and  walks  with  the  instructress 
of  her  youth. 

"Ces  enfans  ne  comprennent  guere  le  Fran^ais," 
says  Miss  Prior,  speaking  very  rapidly. 


Bessy's  Reflections 


A  BLACK  SHEEP  313 

"Apres  lonche?"  I  whisper.  The  fact  is,  I  was  so 
agitated  I  hardly  knew  what  the  French  for  lunch  was. 
And  then  our  conversation  dropped :  and  the  beating  of 
my  own  heart  was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

Lunch  came.  I  couldn't  eat  a  bit:  I  should  have 
choked.  Bessy  ate  plenty,  and  drank  a  glass  of  beer. 
It  was  her  dinner,  to  be  sure.  Young  Blacksheep  did 
not  appear.  We  did  not  miss  him.  When  Lady  Baker 
began  to  tell  her  story  of  George  IV.  at  Slane  Castle, 
I  went  into  my  own  room.  I  took  a  book.  Books?  Psha! 
I  went  into  the  garden.  I  took  out  a  cigar.  But  no,  I 
would  not  smoke  it.  Perhaps  she— many  people  don't 
like  smoking. 

I  went  into  the  garden.  "  Come  into  the  garden, 
IVIaud."  I  sat  by  a  large  lilac-bush.  I  waited.  Per- 
haps she  would  come?  The  morning-roam  windows 
were  wide  open  on  the  lawn.  Will  she  never  come  ?  Ah ! 
what  is  that  tall  form  advancing?  gliding— gliding  into 
the  chamber  like  a  beauteous  ghost?  "Who  most  does 
like  an  angel  show,  you  may  be  sure  'tis  she."  She 
comes  up  to  the  glass.  She  lays  her  spectacles  down  on 
the  mantelpiece.  She  puts  a  slim  white  hand  over  her 
auburn  hair  and  looks  into  the  mirror.  Elizabeth,  Eliz- 
abeth! I  come! 

As  I  came  up,  I  saw  a  horrid  httle  grinning,  de- 
bauched face  surge  over  the  back  of  a  great  armchair 
and  look  towards  Elizabeth.  It  was  Captain  Black- 
sheep,  of  course.  He  laid  his  elbows  over  the  chair.  He 
looked  keenly  and  with  a  diabolical  smile  at  the  uncon- 
scious girl;  and  just  as  I  reached  the  window,  he  cried 
out,  "Bessy  Bellenden,  hy  Jove!" 

Elizabeth  turned  round,  gave  a  little  cry,  and— 
but  what  happened  I  shall  tell  in  the  ensuing  chapter. 


CHAPTER  V 


IN  WHICH  I  AM  STUNG  BY  A  SERPENT 

■?  ill 


when  I  heard 
Baker  call  out 
Bessy  Bellenden, 
and  adjure  Jove, 
he  had  run  for- 
ward and  seized 
Elizabeth  by  the 
waist,  or  offered 
her  other  personal 
indignity,  I  too 
should  have  run 
forward  on  my 
side  and  engaged 
--^^^^^cSSt^^i^^K"  him.  Though  I 
am  a  stout  elderly  man,  short  in  stature  and  in  wind,  I 
know  I  am  a  match  for  that  rickety  little  captain  on  his 
high-heeled  boots.  A  match  for  him?  I  believe  Miss 
Bessy  would  have  been  a  match  for  both  of  us.  Her 
white  arm  was  as  hard  and  polished  as  ivory.  Had 
she  held  it  straight  pointed  against  the  rush  of  the  dra- 
goon, he  would  have  fallen  backwards  before  his  in- 
tended prey:  I  have  no  doubt  he  would.  It  was  the 
hen,  in  this  case,  was  stronger  than  the  libertine  fox, 
and  au  besoin  would  have  pecked  the  little  marauding 

314 


I  AM  STUNG  BY  A  SERPENT        315 

vermin's  eyes  out.  Had,  I  say,  Partlet  been  weak,  and 
Reynard  strong,  I  would  have  come  forward:  I  cer- 
tainly would.  Had  he  been  a  wolf  now,  instead  of  a 
fox,  I  am  certain  I  should  have  run  in  upon  him,  grap- 
pled with  him,  torn  his  heart  and  tongue  out  of  his 
black  throat,  and  trampled  the  lawless  brute  to  death. 

Well,  I  didn't  do  any  such  thing.  I  was  just  going 
to  run  in,— and  I  didn't.  I  was  just  going  to  rush  to 
Bessy's  side  to  clasp  her  (I  have  no  doubt)  to  my  heart: 
to  beard  the  whiskered  champion  who  was  before  her, 
and  perhaps  say,  "  Cheer  thee— cheer  thee,  my  perse- 
cuted maiden,  my  beauteous  love— my  Rebecca!  Come 
on.  Sir  Brian  de  Bois  Guilbert,  thou  dastard  Templar! 
It  is  I,  Sir  Wilfrid  of  Ivanhoe."  (By  the  way,  though 
the  fellow  was  not  a  Templar,  he  was  a  Lincoln  s-Inn 
7nan,  having  passed  twice  through  the  Insolvent  Court 
there  with  infinite  discredit.)  But  I  made  no  heroic 
speeches.  There  was  no  need  for  Rebecca  to  jump  out 
of  window  and  risk  her  lovely  neck.  How  could  she, 
in  fact,  the  French  window  being  flush  with  the  ground- 
floor?  And  I  give  you  my  honour,  just  as  I  was  crying 
my  war-cry,  couching  my  lance,  and  rushing  a  la  re- 
cousse  upon  Sir  Baker,  a  sudden  thought  made  me  drop 
my  (figurative)  point:  a  sudden  idea  made  me  rein  in 
my  galloping  (metaphorical)  steed  and  spare  Baker 
for  that  time. 

Suppose  I  had  gone  in?  But  for  that  sudden  pre- 
caution, there  might  have  been  a  Mrs.  Batchelor.  I 
might  have  been  a  bullied  father  of  ten  children.  (Eliz- 
abeth has  a  fine  high  temper  of  her  own.)  What  is  four 
hundred  and  twenty  a  year,  with  a  wife  and  perhaps 
half-a-dozen  children?  Should  I  have  been  a  whit  the 
happier?    Would  Elizabeth?    Ah!  no.    And  yet  I  feel 


316  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

a  certain  sort  of  shame,  even  now,  when  I  think  that  I 
didn't  go  in.  Not  that  I  was  in  a  fright,  as  some  people 
choose  to  hint.  I  swear  I  was  not.  But  the  reason  why 
I  did  not  charge  was  this — 

Nay,  I  did  charge  part  of  the  way,  and  then,  I  own, 
stop])ed.  It  was  an  error  in  judgment.  It  wasn't  a 
want  of  courage.  Lord  George  Sackville  was  a  brave 
man,  and  as  cool  as  a  cucumber  under  fire.  Well,  he 
didn't  charge  at  the  battle  of  Minden,  and  Prince  Fer- 
dinand made  the  deuce  and  all  of  a  disturbance,  as  we 
know.  Byng  was  a  brave  man, — and  I  ask,  wasn't  it 
a  confounded  shame  executing  him  ?  So  with  respect  to 
myself.  Here  is  my  statement.  I  make  it  openly.  I 
don't  care.  I  am  accused  of  seeing  a  woman  insulted, 
and  not  going  to  her  rescue.  I  am  not  guilty,  I  say. 
That  is,  there  were  reasons  which  caused  me  not  to  at- 
tack. Even  putting  aside  the  superior  strength  of  Eliz- 
abeth herself  to  the  enemy, — I  vow  there  were  cogent 
and  honourable  reasons  why  I  did  not  charge  home. 

You  see  I  happened  to  be  behind  a  blue  lilac-bush  (and 
was  turning  a  rhyme — heaven  help  us! — in  which  death 
was  only  to  part  me  and  Elizabeth)  when  I  saw  Baker's 
face  surge  over  the  chair-back.  I  rush  forward  as  he 
cries  "  by  Jove."  Had  Miss  Prior  cried  out  on  her  part, 
the  strength  of  twenty  Heenans,  I  know,  would  have 
nerved  this  arm;  but  all  she  did  was  to  turn  pale,  and 
say,  "  Oh,  mercy !    Captain  Baker!    Do  pity  me!" 

"What!  you  remember  me,  Bessy  Bellenden,  do 
you?"  asks  the  Captain,  advancing. 

"Oh,  not  that  name!  please,  not  that  name!"  cries 
Bessy. 

"  I  thought  I  knew  you  yesterday,"  says  Baker. 
"  Only,  gad,  you  see,  I  had  so  much  claret  on  board,  I 


Sf-/ 


Bedford  to  the  Rescue 


I  AM  STUNG  BY  A  SERPENT        317 

did  not  much  know  what  was  what.  And  oh!  Bessy, 
I  have  got  such  a  spHtter  of  a  headache." 

"  Oh!  please— please,  my  name  is  Miss  Prior.  Pray! 
pray,  sir,  don't — " 

"You've  got  handsomer— doosid  deal  handsomer. 
Know  you  now  well,  your  spectacles  off.  You  come 
in  here— teach  my  nephew  and  niece,  humbug  my  sis- 
ter, make  love  to  the  sh—  Oh!  you  uncommon  sly 
little  toad!" 

"  Captain  Baker!  I  beg— I  implore  you,"  says  Bessy, 
or  something  of  the  sort:  for  the  white  hands  assumed 
an  attitude  of  supplication. 

"Pooh!  don't  gammon  me!"  says  the  rickety  Captain 
(or  words  to  that  effect) ,  and  seizes  those  two  firm  white 
hands  in  his  moist,  trembling  palms. 

Now  do  you  understand  why  I  paused?  When  the 
dandy  came  grinning  forward,  with  looks  and  gestures 
of  familiar  recognition:  when  the  pale  Elizabeth  im- 
plored him  to  spare  her: — a  keen  arrow  of  jealousy  shot 
whizzing  through  my  heart,  and  caused  me  well-nigh 
to  fall  backwards  as  I  ran  forwards.  I  bumped  up 
against  a  bronze  group  in  the  garden.  The  group  rep- 
resented a  lion  stung  by  a  serpent.  /  was  a  lion  stung 
by  a  serpent  too.  Even  Baker  could  have  knocked  me 
down.  Fiends  and  anguish!  he  had  known  her  before. 
The  Academy,  the  life  she  had  led,  the  wretched  old 
tipsy  ineffective  guardian  of  a  father — all  these  ante- 
cedents in  poor  Bessy's  history  passed  through  my  mind. 
And  I  had  offered  my  heart  and  troth  to  this  woman! 
Now,  my  dear  sir,  I  appeal  to  you.  What  would  you 
have  done?  Would  you  have  liked  to  have  such  a 
sudden  suspicion  thrown  over  the  being  of  your  affec- 
tion?   "Oh!  spare  me — spare  me!"  I  heard  her  say,  in 


318  LOVEL   THE    WIDOWER 

clear — too  clear — pathetic  tones.  And  then  there  came 
rather  a  shrill  "Ah!"  and  then  the  lion  was  up  in  my 
breast  again;  and  I  give  you  my  honour,  just  as  I  was 
going  to  step  forward — to  step? — to  rush  forward  from 
behind  the  urn  where  I  had  stood  for  a  moment  with 
thumping  heart,  Bessy's  "Ah!"  or  little  cry  was  fol- 
lowed by  a  whack,  which  I  heard  as  clear  as  anything 
I  ever  heard  in  my  life;— and  I  saw  the  little  Captain 
spin  back,  topple  over  a  chair  heels  up,  and  in  this 
posture  heard  him  begin  to  scream  and  curse  in  shrill 
tones.    .    .    . 

Not  for  long,  for  as  the  Captain  and  the  chair 
tumble  down,  a  door  springs  open; — a  man  rushes  in, 
who  pounces  like  a  panther  upon  the  prostrate  Cap- 
tain, pitches  into  his  nose  and  eyes,  and  chokes  his 
bad  language  by  sending  a  fist  down  his  naughty 
throat. 

"Oh!  thank  you,  Bedford!— please,  leave  him,  Bed- 
ford! that's  enough.  There,  don't  hurt  him  any  more!  " 
saj^s  Bessy,  laughing — laughing,  upon  my  word. 

"Ah!  will  you?"  says  Bedford.  "Lie  still,  you  little 
beggar,  or  I'll  knock  your  head  off.  Look  here.  Miss 
Prior!— Elizabeth — dear— dear  Elizabeth!  I  love  you 
with  all  my  heart,  and  soul,  and  strength — I  do." 

"O  Bedford!   Bedford!"   warbles  Elizabeth. 

"I  do!  I  can't  help  it.  I  must  say  it!  Ever  since 
Rome,  I  do.  Lie  still,  you  drunken  little  beast !  It's  no 
use.  But  I  adore  you,  O  Elizabeth!  Elizabeth!"  And 
there  was  Dick,  who  was  always  following  Miss  P. 
about,  and  poking  his  head  into  keyholes  to  spy  her, 
actually  making  love  to  her  over  the  prostrate  body  of 
the  Captain. 

Now,  what  was  I  to  do?    Wasn't  I  in  a  most  con- 


I  AM  STUNG  BY  A  SERPENT        319 

foundedly  awkward  situation?  A  lady  had  been  at- 
tacked—a lady  ^.  — the  lady,  and  I  hadn't  rescued  her. 
Her  insolent  enemy  was  overthrown,  and  I  hadn't  done 
it.  A  champion,  three  inches  shorter  than  myself,  had 
come  in,  and  dealt  the  blow.  I  was  in  such  a  rage  of 
mortification,  that  I  should  have  liked  to  thrash  the  Cap- 
tain and  Bedford  too.  The  first  I  know  I  could  have 
matched:  the  second  was  a  tough  little  hero.  And  it 
was  he  who  rescued  the  damsel,  whilst  I  stood  by!  In 
a  strait  so  odious,  sudden,  and  humiliating,  what  should 
I,  M^hat  could  I,  what  did  I  do? 

Behind  the  lion  and  snake  there  is  a  brick  wall  and 
marble  balustrade,  built  for  no  particular  reason,  but 
flanking  three  steps  and  a  grassy  terrace,  which  then 
rises  up  on  a  level  to  the  house-windows.  Beyond  the 
balustrade  is  a  shrubbery  of  more  lilacs  and  so  forth, 
by  which  you  can  walk  round  into  another  path,  which 
also  leads  up  to  the  house.  So  as  I  had  not  charged— 
ah!  woe  is  me!— as  the  battle  was  over,  I— I  just  went 
round  that  shrubbery  into  the  other  path,  and  so  entered 
the  house,  arriving  like  Fortinbras  in  "  Hamlet,"  when 
everybody  is  dead  and  sprawling,  you  know,  and  the 
whole  business  is  done. 

And  was  there  to  be  no  end  to  my  shame,  or  to  Bed- 
ford's laurels  ?  In  that  brief  interval,  whilst  I  was  walk- 
ing round  the  bypath  (just  to  give  myself  a  pretext  for 
entering  coolly  into  the  premises),  this  fortunate  fel- 
low had  absolutely  engaged  another  and  larger  cham- 
pion. This  was  no  other  than  Bulkeley,  my  Lady  B.'s 
first-class  attendant.  When  the  Captain  fell,  amidst 
his  screams  and  curses,  he  called  for  Bulkeley:  and  that 
individual  made  his  appearance,  with  a  little  Scotch  cap 
perched  on  his  powdered  head. 


320  LOVEL   THE    WIDOWER 

"Hullo!  what's  the  row  year?"  says  Goliath,  enter- 
ing. 

"Kill  that  blackguard!  Hang  him,  kill  him!" 
screams  Captain  Blacksheep,  rising  with  bleeding  nose. 

"I  say,  what's  the  row  year?"  asks  the  grenadier. 

"Oif  with  your  cap,  sir,  before  a  lady!"  calls  out 
Bedford. 

"Hoff  with  my  cap!  you  be  bio—" 

But  he  said  no  more,  for  little  Bedford  jumped  some 
two  feet  from  the  ground,  and  knocked  the  cap  off,  so 
that  a  cloud  of  ambrosial  powder  filled  the  room  with 
violet  odours.  The  immense  frame  of  the  giant  shook 
at  this  insult:  "I  will  be  the  death  on  you,  you  little 
beggar!"  he  grunted  out;  and  was  advancing  to  de- 
stroy Dick,  just  as  I  entered  in  the  cloud  which  his  head 
had  raised. 

"I'll  knock  the  brains  as  well  as  the  powder  out  of 
your  ugly  head!"  says  Bedford,  springing  at  the  poker. 
At  which  juncture  I  entered. 

"  What — what  is  this  disturbance? "  I  say,  advancing 
with  an  air  of  mingled  surprise  and  resolution. 

"You  git  out  of  the  way  till  I  knock  his  'ead  off!" 
roars  Bulkeley. 

"  Take  up  your  cap,  sir,  and  leave  the  room,"  I  say, 
still  with  the  same  elegant  firmness. 

"Put  down  that  there  poker,  you  coward!"  bellows 
the  monster  on  board  wages. 

"Miss  Prior!"  I  say  (like  a  dignified  hypocrite,  as  I 
own  I  was),  "I  hope  no  one  has  offered  you  a  rude- 
ness?" And  I  glare  round,  first  at  the  knight  of  the 
bleeding  nose,  and  then  at  his  squire. 

Miss  Prior's  face,  as  she  replied  to  me,  wore  a  look  of 
awful  scorn. 


I  AM  STUNG  BY  A  SERPENT        321 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  she  said,  turning  her  head  over  her 
shoulder,  and  looking  at  me  with  her  grey  eyes.  "  Thank 
you,  Richard  Bedford!  God  bless  you!  I  shall  ever 
be  thankful  to  you,  wherever  I  am."  And  the  stately 
figure  swept  out  of  the  room. 

She  had  seen  me  behind  that  confounded  statue,  then, 
and  I  had  not  come  to  her!  O  torments  and  racks!  O 
scorpions,  fiends  and  pitchforks !  The  face  of  Bedford, 
too  (flashing  with  knightly  gratitude  anon  as  she  spoke 
kind  words  to  him  and  passed  on) ,  wore  a  look  of  scorn 
as  he  turned  towards  me,  and  then  stood,  his  nostrils  dis- 
tended, and  breathing  somewhat  hard,  glaring  at  his 
enemies,  and  still  grasping  his  mace  of  battle. 

When  Elizabeth  was  gone,  there  was  a  pause  of  a 
moment,  and  then  Blacksheep,  taking  his  bleeding  cam- 
bric from  his  nose,  shrieks  out,  "Kill  him,  I  say!  A 
fellow  that  dares  to  hit  one  in  my  condition,  and  when 
I'm  down!  Bulkeley,  you  great  hulking  jackass!  kill 
him,  I  say!" 

"  Jest  let  him  put  that  there  poker  down,  that's  hall," 
growls  Bulkeley. 

"  You're  afraid,  you  great  cowardly  beast!  You  shall 
go,  Mr.  What-d'ye-call-'im — Mr.  Bedford — you  shall 
have  the  sack,  sir,  as  sure  as  your  name  is  what  it  is!  I'll 
tell  my  brother-in-law  everything;  and  as  for  that  wo- 
man—" 

*'  If  you  say  a  word  against  her,  I'll  cane  you  wher- 
ever I  see  you.  Captain  Baker!"  I  cry  out. 

"Who  spoke  to  you?"  says  the  Captain,  falling  back 
and  scowling  at  me. 

"Who  hever  told  you  to  put  your  foot  in?"  says  the 
squire. 

I  was  in  such  a  rage,  and  so  eager  to  find  an  object 


322  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

on  which  I  might  wreak  my  fury,  that  I  confess  I 
plunged  at  this  Bulkeley.  I  gave  him  two  most  violent 
blows  on  the  waistcoat,  which  caused  him  to  double  up 
with  such  frightful  contortions,  that  Bedford  burst  out 
laughing;  and  even  the  Captain  with  the  damaged  eye 
and  nose  began  to  laugh  too.  Then,  taking  a  lesson 
from  Dick,  as  there  was  a  fine  shining  dagger  on  the 
table,  used  for  the  cutting  open  of  reviews  and  maga- 
zines, I  seized  and  brandished  this  weapon,  and  I  dare 
say  would  have  sheathed  it  in  the  giant's  bloated  corpus, 
had  he  made  any  movement  towards  me.  But  he  only 
called  out,  "  hi'll  be  the  death  on  you,  you  cowards!  hi'll 
be  the  death  of  both  on  you!"  and  snatching  up  his  cap 
from  the  carpet,  walked  out  of  the  room. 

"Glad  you  did  that,  though,"  says  Baker,  nodding 
his  head.    "  Think  I'd  best  pack  up." 

And  now  the  Devil  of  Rage  which  had  been  swelling 
within  me  gave  place  to  a  worse  devil— the  Devil  of 
Jealousy— and  I  turned  on  the  Captain,  who  was  also 
just  about  to  slink  away: — 

"  Stop! "  I  cried  out— I  screamed  out,  I  may  say. 

"Who  spoke  to  you,  I  should  like  to  know?  and  who 
the  dooce  dares  to  speak  to  me  in  that  sort  of  way? "  saj^s 
Clarence  Baker,  with  a  plentiful  garnish  of  expletives, 
which  need  not  be  here  inserted.  But  he  stopped,  never- 
theless, and  turned  slouching  round. 

"  You  spoke  just  now  of  Miss  Prior? "  I  said.  "  Have 
you  anything  against  her? " 

"What's  that  to  you?"  he  asked. 

"  I  am  her  oldest  friend.  I  introduced  her  into  this 
family.     Dare  you  say  a  word  against  her?" 

"Well,  who  the  dooce  has?" 

"  You  knew  her  before? " 


I  AM  STUNG  BY  A  SERPENT        323 

"  Yes,  I  did,  then." 

"When  she  went  by  the  name  of  Bellenden?" 

"Of  course  I  did.  And  what's  that  to  you?"  he 
screams  out. 

"  I  this  day  asked  her  to  be  my  wife,  sir!  That's  what 
it  is  to  me ! "  I  repHed,  with  severe  dignity. 

Mr.  Clarence  began  to  whistle.  "Oh!  if  that's  it — 
of  course  not!"  he  saj^s. 

The  jealous  demon  writhed  within  me  and  rent  me. 

"You  mean  that  there  is  something,  then?"  I  asked, 
glaring  at  the  young  reprobate. 

"  No,  I  don't,"  says  he,  looking  very  much  frightened. 
"  No,  there  is  nothin'.  Upon  my  sacred  honour,  there 
isn't,  that  I  know."  (I  was  looking  uncommonly  fierce 
at  this  time,  and,  I  must  own,  would  rather  have  quar- 
relled with  somebody  than  not.)  "No,  there  is  nothin' 
that  I  know.  Ever  so  many  years  ago,  you  see,  I  used 
to  go  with  Tom  Papillion,  Turkington,  and  two  or  three 
fellows,  to  that  theatre.  Dolphin  had  it.  And  we  used 
to  go  behind  the  scenes — and — and  I  own  I  had  a  row 
with  her.  And  I  was  in  the  wrong.  There  now,  I  own 
I  was.  And  she  left  the  theatre.  And  she  behaved 
quite  right.  And  I  was  very  sorry.  And  I  believe  she 
is  as  good  a  woman  as  ever  stept  now.  And  the  father 
was  a  disreputable  old  man,  but  most  honourable — I 
know  he  was.  And  there  was  a  fellow  in  the  Bombay 
service— a  fellow  by  the  name  of  Walker  or  Walking- 
ham — 3'es,  Walkingham;  and  I  used  to  meet  him  at  the 
'  Cave  of  Harmony,'  you  know;  and  he  told  me  that  she 
was  as  right  as  right  could  be.  And  he  was  doosidly 
cut  up  about  leaving  her.  And  he  would  have  married 
her,  I  dessay,  only  for  his  father  the  General,  wlio 
wouldn't  stand  it.     And  he  was  ready  to  hang  himself 


324  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

when  he  went  away.  He  used  to  drink  awfully,  and 
then  he  used  to  swear  about  her;  and  we  used  to  chaff 
him,  you  know.  Low,  vulgarish  sort  of  man,  he  was; 
and  a  very  passionate  fellow.  And  if  you're  goin'  to 
marry  her,  j^ou  know — of  course,  I  ask  your  pardon, 
and  that;  and  upon  the  honour  of  a  gentleman  I  know 
nothin'  against  her.  And  I  wish  you  joy  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing.  I  do  now,  really  now!"  And  so  saying, 
the  mean,  mischievous  little  monkey  sneaked  away,  and 
clambered  up  to  his  own  perch  in  his  own  bedroom. 

Worthy  Mrs.  Bonnington,  with  a  couple  of  her  young 
ones,  made  her  appearance  at  this  juncture.  She  had 
a  key,  which  gave  her  a  free  pass  through  the  garden 
door,  and  brought  her  children  for  an  afternoon's  play 
and  fighting  with  their  little  nephew  and  niece.  De- 
cidedly, Bessy  did  not  bring  up  her  young  folks  well. 
Was  it  that  their  grandmothers  spoiled  thenj,  and  undid 
the  governess's  work?  Were  those  young  people  odious 
(as  they  often  were)  by  nature,  or  rendered  so  by  the 
neglect  of  their  guardians?  If  Bessy  had  loved  her 
charges  more,  would  they  not  have  been  better?  Had 
she  a  kind,  loving,  maternal  heart?  Ha!  This  thought 
— this  jealous  doubt — smote  my  bosom:  and  were  she 
mine,  and  the  mother  of  many  possible  little  Batchelors, 
would  she  be  kind  to  them?  Would  they  be  wilful,  and 
selfish,  and  abominable  little  wretches,  in  a  word,  like 
these  children?  Nay— nay!  Say  that  Elizabeth  has 
but  a  cold  heart;  we  cannot  be  all  perfection.  But,  per 
contra,  you  must  admit  that,  cold  as  she  is,  she  does  her 
duty.  How  good  slie  has  been  to  her  own  brothers  and 
sisters:  how  cheerfully  she  has  given  away  her  savings 
to  them:  how  admirably  she  has  behaved  to  her  mother, 
hiding  the  iniquities  of  that  disreputable  old  schemer. 


I  AM  STUNG  BY  A  SERPENT        325 

and  covering  her  improprieties  with  decent  fihal  screens 
and  pretexts.  Her  mother?  Ah!  grands  dieux!  You 
want  to  marry,  Charles  Batchelor,  and  you  will  have  that 
greedy  pauper  for  a  mother-in-law ;  that  fluffy  Bluecoat 
boy,  those  hobnailed  taw-players,  top-spinners,  toffee- 
eaters,  those  underbred  girls,  for  your  brothers  and  sis- 
ters-in-law !  They  will  be  quartered  upon  you.  You  are 
so  absurdly  w^eak  and  good-natured— you  know  you  are 
—that  you  will  never  be  able  to  resist.  Those  boys  will 
grow  up:  they  will  go  out  as  clerks  or  shop-boys:  get 
into  debt,  and  expect  you  to  pay  their  bills:  want  to  be 
articled  to  attorneys  and  so  forth,  and  call  upon  you  for 
the  premium.  Their  mother  will  never  be  out  of  your 
house.  She  will  ferret  about  in  your  drawers  and  ward- 
robes, filch  your  haberdashery,  and  cast  greedy  eyes  on 
the  very  shirts  and  coats  on  your  back,  and  calculate 
when  she  can  get  them  for  her  boys.  Those  vulgar 
young  miscreants  will  never  fail  to  come  and  dine  with 
you  on  a  Sunday.  They  will  bring  their  young  linen- 
draper  or  articled  friends.  They  will  draw  bills  on  you, 
or  give  their  own  to  money-lenders,  and  unless  you  take 
up  those  bills  they  will  consider  you  a  callous,  avaricious 
brute,  and  the  heartless  author  of  their  ruin.  The  girls 
will  come  and  practise  on  your  wife's  piano.  They  won't 
come  to  you  on  Sundays  only;  they  will  always  be  stay- 
ing in  the  house.  They  will  always  be  preventing  a 
tete-a-tete  between  your  wife  and  you.  As  they  grow 
old,  they  will  want  her  to  take  them  out  to  tea-parties, 
and  to  give  such  entertainments,  where  they  will  intro- 
duce their  odious  young  men.  They  will  expect  you  to 
commit  meannesses,  in  order  to  get  theatre  tickets  for 
them  from  the  newspaper  editors  of  your  acquaintance. 
You  will  have  to  sit  in  the  back  seat:  to  pay  the  cab  to 


326  LOVEL   THE    WIDOWER 

and  from  the  play:  to  see  glances  and  bows  of  recog- 
nition passing  between  them  and  dubious  bucks  in  the 
lobbies:  and  to  lend  the  girls  your  wife's  gloves,  scarfs, 
ornaments,  smelling-bottles,  and  handkerchiefs,  which 
of  course  they  will  never  return.  If  Elizabeth  is  ailing 
from  any  circumstance,  they  will  get  a  footing  in  your 
house,  and  she  will  be  jealous  of  them.  The  ladies  of 
your  own  family  will  quarrel  with  them  of  course;  and 
very  likely  your  mother-in-law  will  tell  them  a  piece  of 
her  mind.  And  you  bring  this  dreary  certainty  upon 
3^ou,  because,  forsooth,  you  fall  in  love  with  a  fine  figure, 
a  pair  of  grey  eyes,  and  a  head  of  auburn  (not  to  say 
red)  hair!  O  Charles  Batchelor!  in  what  a  galley  hast 
thou  seated  thyself,  and  what  a  family  is  crowded  in 
thy  boat! 

All  these  thoughts  are  passing  in  my  mind,  as  good 
Mrs.  Bonnington  is  prattling  to  me— I  protest  I  don't 
know  about  what.  I  think  I  caught  some  faint  sen- 
tences about  the  Patagonian  mission,  the  National 
schools,  and  Mr.  Bonnington's  lumbago ;  but  I  can't  say 
for  certain.  I  was  busy  with  my  own  thoughts.  I  had 
asked  the  awful  question — I  was  not  answered.  Bessy 
had  even  gone  away  in  a  huif  about  my  want  of  gal- 
lantry, but  I  was  easy  on  that  score.  As  for  Mr. 
Drencher,  she  had  told  me  her  sentiments  regarding 
him;  "  and  though  I  am  considerably  older,  yet,"  thought 
I,  "  I  need  not  be  afraid  of  that  rival.  But  when  she 
says  yes?  Oh,  dear!  oh,  dear!  Yes  means  Elizabeth— 
certainly,  a  brave  young  woman— but  it  means  Mrs. 
Prior,  and  Gus,  and  Amelia  Jane,  and  the  whole  of  that 
dismal  family."  No  wonder,  with  these  dark  thoughts 
crowding  my  mind,  Mrs.  Bonnington  found  me  absent; 
and,  as  a  comment  upon  some  absurd  reply  of  mine, 


I  AM  STUNG  BY  A  SERPENT         327 

said,  "  La!  Mr.  Batchelor,  you  must  be  crossed  in  love! " 
Crossed  in  love!  It  might  be  as  well  for  some  folks  if 
they  were  crossed  in  love.  At  my  age,  and  having  loved 
madly,  as  I  did,  that  party  in  Dublin,  a  man  doesn't  take 
the  second  fit  by  any  means  so  strongly.  Well!  well! 
the  die  was  cast,  and  I  was  there  to  bide  the  hazard. 
What  can  be  the  matter?  I  look  pale  and  unwell,  and 
had  better  see  ^Ir.  D.  ?  Thank  you,  my  dear  Mrs.  Bon- 
nington.  I  had  a  violent— a  violent  toothache  last 
night— yes,  toothache;  and  w^as  kept  awake,  thank  you. 
And  there's  nothing  like  having  it  out?  and  Mr.  D.  draws 
them  beautifully,  and  has  taken  out  six  of  your  chil- 
dren's? It's  better  now;  I  dare  say  it  will  be  better  still, 
soon.  I  retire  to  my  chamber:  I  take  a  book— can't 
read  one  word  of  it.  I  resume  my  tragedy.  Tragedy? 
Bosh! 

I  suppose  Mr.  Drencher  thought  his  yesterday's  pa- 
tient would  be  better  for  a  little  more  advice  and  medi- 
cine, for  he  must  pay  a  second  visit  to  Shrublands  on 
this  day,  just  after  the  row  with  the  Captain  had  taken 
place,  and  walked  up  to  the  upper  regions,  as  his  cus- 
tom was.  Very  likely  he  found  Mr.  Clarence  bathing 
his  nose  there,  and  prescribed  for  the  injured  organ. 
Certainly  he  knocked  at  the  door  of  Miss  Prior's  school- 
room (the  fellow  was  always  finding  a  pretext  for  en- 
tering that  apartment),  and  Master  Bedford  comes  to 
me,  with  a  wobegone,  livid  countenance,  and  a  "Ha! 
ha!  young  Sawbones  is  up  with  her!" 

"  So,  my  poor  Dick,"  I  say,  "  I  heard  your  confession 
as  I  was  myself  running  in  to  rescue  Miss  P.  from  that 
villain." 

"My  blood  w^as  hup,"  groans  Dick,— "up,  I  beg 
your  pardon.    When  I  saw  that  young  rascal  lay  a  hand 


328  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

on  her  I  could  not  help  flying  at  him.  I  would  have 
hit  him  if  he  had  been  my  own  father.  And  I  could  not 
help  saying  what  was  on  my  mind.  It  would  come  out ; 
I  knew  it  would  some  day.  I  might  as  well  wish  for 
the  moon  as  hope  to  get  her.  She  thinks  herself  superior 
to  me,  and  perhaps  she  is  mistaken.  But  it's  no  use; 
she  don't  care  for  me ;  she  don't  care  for  anybody.  Now 
the  words  are  out,  in  course  I  mustn't  stay  here." 

"  You  may  get  another  place  easily  enough  with  your 
character,  Bedford ! " 

But  he  shook  his  head.  "  I'm  not  disposed  to  black 
nobody  else's  boots  no  more.  I  have  another  place.  I 
have  saved  a  bit  of  money.  My  poor  old  mother  is  gone, 
whom  you  used  to  be  so  kind  to,  Mr.  B.  I'm  alone  now. 
Confound  that  Sawbones,  will  he  never  come  away?  I'll 
tell  you  about  my  plans  some  day,  sir,  and  I  know  you'll 
be  so  good  as  to  help  me."  And  away  goes  Dick,  look- 
ing the  picture  of  woe  and  despair. 

Presently,  from  the  upper  rooms.  Sawbones  descends. 
I  happened  to  be  standing  in  the  hall,  you  see,  talking  to 
Dick.  Mr.  Drencher  scowls  at  me  fiercely,  and  I  sup- 
pose I  return  him  haught}^  glance  for  glance.  He  hated 
me :  I  him :  I  liked  him  to  hate  me. 

"How  is  your  patient,  Mr. — a — Drencher?"  I  ask. 

"  Trifling  contusion  of  the  nose — brown  paper  and 
vinegar,"  says  the  doctor. 

"  Great  powers!  did  the  villain  strike  her  on  the  nose? " 
I  cry,  in  terror. 

''Her — whom?"  says  he. 

"Oh — ah — yes — indeed;  it's  nothing,"  I  say,  smiling. 
The  fact  is  I  had  forgotten  about  Baker  in  my  natural 
anxiety  for  Elizabeth. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  laughing,  sir? "  says 


I  AM  STUNG  BY  A  SERPENT        329 

the  red-haired  practitioner.  "  But  if  you  mean  chaff, 
]\Ir.  Batchelor,  let  me  tell  you  I  don't  want  chaff,  and 
I  won't  have  chaff! "  and  herewith,  exit  Sawbones,  look- 
ing black  doses  at  me. 

Jealous  of  me,  think  I,  as  I  sink  down  in  a  chair  in 
the  morning-room,  where  the  combat  had  just  taken 
place.  And  so  thou,  too,  art  fever-caught,  my  poor 
phj^sician!  What  a  fascination  this  girl  has!  Here's 
the  butler:  here's  the  medical  man:  here  am  I:  here  is 
the  Captain  has  been  smitten — smitten  on  the  nose. 
Has  the  gardener  been  smitten  too,  and  is  the  page 
gnawing  the  buttons  off  for  jealous}?',  and  is  Mons. 
Bulkeley  equally  in  love  with  her?  I  take  up  a  review, 
and  think  over  this,  as  I  glance  through  its  pages. 

As  I  am  lounging  and  reading,  Mons.  Bulkeley  him- 
self makes  his  appearance,  bearing  in  cloaks  and  pack- 
ages belonging  to  his  lady.  "  Have  the  goodness  to 
take  that  cap  off,"  I  say,  coolly. 

"  You  'ave  the  goodness  to  remember  that  if  hever  I 
see  you  bout  o'  this  'ouse  I'll  punch  your  hugly  'ead  off," 
says  the  monstrous  menial.  But  I  poise  my  paper- 
cutter,  and  he  retires  growling. 

From  despondency  I  pass  to  hope;  and  the  prospect 
of  marriage,  which  before  appeared  so  dark  to  me, 
assumes  a  gayer  hue.  I  have  four  hundred  a  year,  and 
that  house  in  Devonshire  Street,  Bloomsbury  Square, 
of  which  the  upper  part  will  be  quite  big  enough  for  us. 
If  we  have  children,  there  is  Queen  Square  for  them  to 
walk  and  play  in.  Several  genteel  families  I  know, 
who  still  live  in  the  neighbourhood,  will  come  and  see 
my  wife,  and  we  shall  have  a  comfortable,  cosj^  little 
society,  suited  to  our  small  means.  The  tradesmen  in 
Lamb's  Conduit  Street  are  excellent,  and  the  music  at 


330  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

the  Foundling  always  charming.  I  shall  give  up  one 
of  my  clubs.     The  other  is  within  an  easy  walk. 

No:  my  wife's  relations  will  not  plague  me.  Bessy 
is  a  most  sensible,  determined  woman,  and  as  cool  a 
hand  as  I  know.  She  will  only  see  Mrs.  Prior  at 
proper  (and,  I  trust,  distant)  intervals.  Her  brothers 
and  sisters  will  learn  to  know  their  places,  and  not  ob- 
trude upon  me  or  the  company  which  I  keep.  My 
friends,  who  are  educated  people  and  gentlemen,  will 
not  object  to  visit  me  because  I  live  over  a  shop  (my 
ground-floor  and  spacious  back  premises  in  Devonshire 
Street  are  let  to  a  German  toy-warehouse) .  I  shall  add 
a  hundred  or  two  at  least  to  my  income  by  my  literary 
labour;  and  Bessy,  who  has  practised  frugality  all  her 
life,  and  been  a  good  daughter  and  a  good  sister,  I 
know  will  prove  a  good  wife,  and,  please  heaven !  a  good 
mother.  Why,  four  hundred  a  year,  j^lus  two  hundred, 
is  a  nice  little  income.  And  my  old  college  friend,  Wig- 
more,  who  is  just  on  the  Bench?  He  will,  he  must  get 
me  a  place — say  three  hundred  a  year.  With  nine 
hundred  a  year  we  can  do  quite  well. 

Love  is  full  of  elations  and  despondencies.  The 
future,  over  which  such  a  black  cloud  of  doubt  lowered 
a  few  minutes  since,  blushed  a  sweet  rose-colour  now. 
I  saw  myself  happy,  beloved,  with  a  competence,  and 
imagined  myself  reposing  in  the  delightful  garden  of 
Red  Lion  Square  on  some  summer  evening,  and  half- 
a-dozen  little  Batchelors  frisking  over  the  flower-be- 
spangled grass  there. 

After  our  little  colloquy,  Mrs.  Bonnington,  not  find- 
ing much  pleasure  in  my  sulky  society,  had  gone  to  Miss 
Prior's  room  with  her  young  folks,  and  as  the  door  of 
the  morning-room  opened  now  and  again,  I  could  hear 


I  AM  STUNG  BY  A  SERPENT        331 

the  dear  young  ones  scuttling  about  the  passages,  where 
they  were  playing  at  horses,  and  fighting,  and  so  forth. 
After  a  while  good  INIrs.  B.  came  down  from  the  school- 
room. "Whatever  has  happened,  Mr.  Batchelor?"  she 
said  to  me,  in  her  passage  through  the  morning-room. 
"Miss  Prior  is  very  pale  and  absent.  You  are  very 
pale  and  absent.  Have  you  been  courting  her,  you 
naughty  man,  and  trying  to  supplant  Mr.  Drencher? 
There  now,  you  turn  as  red  as  my  ribbon!  Ah!  Bessy 
is  a  good  girl,  and  so  fond  of  my  dear  children.  '  Ah, 
dear  Mrs.  Bonnington,'  she  says  to  me — but  of  course 
you  won't  tell  Lady  B.:  it  would  make  Lady  B.  per- 
fectly furious.  'Ah!'  says  Miss  P.  to  me,  'I  wish, 
ma'am,  that  my  little  charges  were  like  their  dear  little 
uncles  and  aunts — so  exquisitely  brought  up!'  Pop 
again  wished  to  beat  his  uncle.  I  wish — I  wish  Fred- 
erick would  send  that  child  to  school!  Miss  P.  owns 
that  he  is  too  much  for  her.  Come,  children,  it  is  time 
to  go  to  dinner."  And,  with  more  of  this  prattle,  the 
good  lady  summons  her  young  ones,  who  descend  from 
the  schoolroom  wath  their  nephew  and  niece. 

Following  nephew  and  niece,  comes  demure  Miss 
Prior,  to  whom  I  fling  a  knowing  glance,  which  says, 
plain  as  eyes  can  speak — Do,  Elizabeth,  come  and  talk 
for  a  little  to  your  faithful  Batchelor!  She  gives  a 
sidelong  look  of  intelligence,  leaves  a  parasol  and  a  pair 
of  gloves  on  a  table,  accompanies  Mrs.  Bonnington  and 
the  young  ones  into  the  garden,  sees  the  clergyman's 
wife  and  children  disappear  through  the  garden  gate, 
and  her  own  youthful  charges  engaged  in  the  straw- 
berry-beds; and,  of  course,  returns  to  the  morning- 
room  for  her  parasol  and  gloves,  which  she  had  for- 
gotten.     There  is  a  calmness  about  that  woman— an 


332  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

easy,  dauntless  dexterity,  which  frightens  me— ma 
parole  d'honneur.  In  that  white  breast  is  there  a  white 
marble  stone  in  place  of  the  ordinary  cordial  apparatus? 
Under  the  white  velvet  glove  of  that  cool  hand  are  there 
bones  of  cold  steel? 

"So,  Drencher  has  again  been  here,  Elizabeth?"  I 
say. 

She  shrugs  her  shoulders.  "To  see  that  wretched 
Captain  Baker.  The  horrid  little  man  will  die!  He 
was  not  actually  sober  just  now  when  he — when  I — 
when  you  saw  him.  How  I  wish  you  had  come  sooner 
— to  prevent  that  horrible,  tipsy,  disreputable  quarrel. 
It  makes  me  very,  very  thoughtful,  Mr.  Batchelor.  He 
will  speak  to  his  mother— to  Mr.  Lovel.  I  shall  have 
to  go  away.     I  know  I  must." 

"And  don't  you  know  where  you  can  find  a  home, 
Elizabeth?  Have  the  words  I  spoke  this  morning  been 
so  soon  forgotten?" 

"Oh!  Mr.  Batchelor!  you  spoke  in  a  heat.  You 
could  not  think  seriously  of  a  poor  girl  like  me,  so 
friendless  and  poor,  with  so  many  family  ties.  Pop  is 
looking  this  way,  please.  To  a  man  bred  like  you,  what 
can  I  be?" 

"You  may  make  the  rest  of  my  life  happy,  Eliza- 
beth!" I  cry.  "We  are  friends  of  such  old— old  date, 
that  you  know  what  my  disposition  is." 

"  Oh!  indeed,"  says  she,  "  it  is  certain  that  there  never 
was  a  sweeter  disposition  or  a  more  gentle  creature." 
(Somehow  I  thought  she  said  the  words  "gentle  crea- 
ture "  with  rather  a  sarcastic  tone  of  voice.)  "  But  con- 
sider your  habits,  dear  sir.  I  remember  how  in  Beak 
Street  you  used  to  be  always  giving,  and,  in  spite  of 
your  income,  always  poor.     You  love  ease  and  elegance ; 


I  AM  STUNG  BY  A  SERPENT        333 

and  having,  I  dare  say,  not  too  much  for  yourself  now, 
would  you  encumber  yourself  with — with  me  and  the 
expenses  of  a  household?  I  shall  always  regard  you, 
esteem  you,  love  you  as  the  best  friend  I  ever  had,  and 
— void  venir  la  mere  du  vaiiricn." 

Enter  Lady  Baker.  "  Do  I  interrupt  a  tete-a-tete, 
pray?"  she  asks. 

"  My  benefactor  has  known  me  since  I  was  a  child, 
and  befriended  me  since  then,"  says  Elizabeth,  with 
simple  kindness  beaming  in  her  look,  "  We  were  just 
speaking— I  was  just— ah!— telling  him  that  my  uncle 
has  invited  me  most  kindly  to  St.  Boniface,  whenever 
I  can  be  spared;  and  if  you  and  the  family  go  to  the 
Isle  of  Wight  this  autumn,  perhaps  you  will  intercede 
with  ^Ir.  Lovel,  and  let  me  have  a  little  holiday.  Mary 
will  take  every  charge  of  the  children,  and  I  do  so  long 
to  see  my  dear  aunt  and  cousins!  And  I  was  begging 
Mr.  Batchelor  to  use  his  interest  with  you,  and  to  entreat 
you  to  use  your  interest  to  get  me  leave.  That  was 
what  our  talk  was  about." 

The  deuce  it  was!  I  couldn't  say  No,  of  course;  but 
I  protest  I  had  no  idea  until  that  moment  that  our  con- 
versation had  been  about  aunt  and  uncle  at  St.  Boniface. 
Again  came  the  horrible  suspicion,  the  dreadful  doubt— 
the  chill  as  of  a  cold  serpent  crawling  down  my  back 
—which  had  made  me  pause,  and  gasp,  and  turn  pale, 
anon  when  Bessy  and  Captain  Clarence  were  holding 
colloquy  together.  What  has  happened  in  this  woman's 
life?  Do  I  know  all  about  her,  or  anything;  or  only 
just  as  much  as  she  chooses?  O  Batch— Batch!  I  sus- 
pect you  are  no  better  than  an  old  gaby ! 

"  And  Mr.  Drencher  has  just  been  here  and  seen  j^our 
son,"  Bessy  continues,  softly ;  "  and  he  begs  and  entreats 


334,  LOVEL   THE    WIDOWER 

your  ladyship  to  order  Captain  Baker  to  be  more  pru- 
dent. Mr.  D.  says  Captain  Baker  is  shortening  his 
life,  indeed  he  is,  by  his  carelessness." 

There  is  JMr.  Lovel  coming  from  the  city,  and  the 
children  are  running  to  their  papa!  And  Miss  Prior 
makes  her  patroness  a  meek  curtsey,  and  demurely  slides 
away  from  the  room.  With  a  sick  heart  I  say  to  my- 
self, "  She  has  been — yes — humbugging  is  the  word — 
humbugging  Lady  B.  Elizabeth!  Elizabeth!  can  it  be 
possible  thou  art  humbugging  me  too?" 

Before  Lovel  enters,  Bedford  rapidly  flits  through 
the  room.  He  looks  as  pale  as  a  ghost.  His  face  is 
awfully  gloomy. 

"  Here's  the  governor  come,"  Dick  whispers  to  me. 
"  It  must  all  come  hout  now — out,  I  beg  your  pardon. 
So  she's  caught  you^  has  she?  I  thought  she  would." 
And  he  grins  a  ghastly  grin. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  ask,  and  I  dare  say  turn 
rather  red. 

"  I  know  all  about  it.  I'll  speak  to  you  to-night,  sir. 
Confound  her!  confound  her!"  and  he  doubles  his 
knuckles  into  his  eyes,  and  rushes  out  of  the  room  over 
Buttons  entering  with  the  afternoon  tea. 

"  What  on  earth's  the  matter,  and  why  are  you  knock- 
ing the  things  about?"  Lovel  asks  at  dinner  of  his  but- 
ler, who,  indeed,  acted  as  one  distraught.  A  savage 
gloom  was  depicted  on  Bedford's  usually  melancholy 
countenance,  and  the  blunders  in  his  service  were  many. 
With  his  brother-in-law  Lovel  did  not  exchange  many 
words.  Clarence  was  not  yet  forgiven  for  his  escapade 
two  days  previous.  And  when  Lady  Baker  cried, 
"Mercy,  child!  what  have  you  done  to  yourself?"  and 
the  Captain  replied,  "  Knocked  my  face  against  a  dark 


I  AM  STUNG  BY  A  SERPENT        335 

door — made  my  nose  bleed,"  Lovel  did  not  look  up  or 
express  a  word  of  sympathy.  "  If  the  fellow  knocked 
his  worthless  head  off,  I  should  not  be  sorry,"  the 
widower  murmured  to  me.  Indeed,  the  tone  of  the 
Captain's  voice,  his  ton,  and  his  manners  in  general, 
were  specially  odious  to  Mr.  Lovel,  who  could  put  up 
with  the  tyranny  of  women,  but  revolted  against  the 
vulgarity  and  assumption  of  certain  men. 

As  yet  nothing  had  been  said  about  the  morning's 
quarrel.  Here  we  were  all  sitting  with  a  sword  hang- 
ing over  our  heads,  smiling  and  chatting,  and  talking 
cookery,  politics,  the  weather,  and  what  not.  Bessy 
was  perfectly  cool  and  dignified  at  tea.  Danger  or 
doubt  did  not  seem  to  affect  he7\  If  she  had  been 
ordered  for  execution  at  the  end  of  the  evening  she 
would  have  made  the  tea,  played  her  Beethoven,  an- 
swered questions  in  her  usual  voice,  and  glided  about 
from  one  to  another  with  her  usual  dignified  calm,  until 
the  hour  of  decapitation  came,  when  she  would  have 
made  her  curtsey,  and  gone  out  and  had  the  amputation 
performed  quite  quietly  and  neatly.  I  admired  her,  I 
was  frightened  before  her.  The  cold  snake  crept  more 
than  ever  down  my  back  as  I  meditated  on  her.  I  made 
such  awful  blunders  at  whist  that  even  good  Mrs.  Ben- 
nington lost  her  temper  with  her  fourteen  shillings. 
Miss  Prior  would  have  played  her  hand  out,  and  never 
made  a  fault,  you  may  be  sure.  She  retired  at  her  ac- 
customed hour.  Mrs.  Bonnington  had  her  glass  of 
negus,  and  withdrew  too.  Lovel  keeping  his  eyes 
sternly  on  the  Captain,  that  officer  could  only  get  a  little 
sherry  and  seltzer,  and  went  to  bed  sober.  Lady  Baker 
folded  Lovel  in  her  arms,  a  process  to  which  my  poor 
friend  very  humbly  submitted.      Everybody   went  to 


336  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

bed,  and  no  tales  were  told  of  the  morning's  doings. 
There  was  a  respite,  and  no  execution  could  take  place 
till  to-morrow  at  any  rate.  Put  on  thy  nightcap,  Da- 
mocles, and  slumber  for  to-night  at  least.  Thy  slum- 
bers will  not  be  cut  short  by  the  awful  Chopper  of  Fate. 

Perhaps  you  may  ask  what  need  had  I  to  be  alarmed? 
Nothing  could  happen  to  me.  I  was  not  going  to  lose 
a  governess's  place.  Well,  if  I  must  tell  the  truth,  I 
had  not  acted  with  entire  candour  in  the  matter  of 
Bessy's  appointment.  In  recommending  her  to  Lovel 
and  the  late  Mrs.  L.,  I  had  answered  for  her  probity, 
and  so  forth,  with  all  my  might.  I  had  described  the 
respectability  of  her  family,  her  father's  campaigns,  her 
grandfather's  (old  Dr.  Sargent's)  celebrated  sermons; 
and  had  enlarged  with  the  utmost  eloquence  upon  the 
learning  and  high  character  of  her  uncle,  the  Master  of 
Boniface,  and  the  deserved  regard  he  bore  his  niece. 
But  that  part  of  Bessy's  biography  which  related  to  the 
Academy  I  own  I  had  not  touched  upon.  A  quoi  hon? 
Would  every  gentleman  or  lady  like  to  have  everything 
told  about  him  or  her?  I  had  kept  the  Academy  dark 
then;  and  so  had  brave  Dick  Bedford  the  butler;  and 
should  that  miscreant  Captain  reveal  the  secret,  I  knew 
there  would  be  an  awful  commotion  in  the  building.  I 
should  have  to  incur  Lovel's  not  unjust  reproaches  for 
suppressio  veri,  and  the  anger  of  those  two  viragines, 
the  grandmothers  of  Lovel's  children.  I  was  more 
afraid  of  the  women  than  of  him,  though  conscience 
whispered  me  that  I  had  not  acted  quite  rightly  by  my 
friend. 

When,  then,  the  bed-candles  were  lighted,  and  every 
one  said  good-night,  "Oh!  Captain  Baker,"  say  I, 
gaily,  and  putting  on  a  confoundedly  hypocritical  grin. 


I  AM  STUNG  BY  A  SERPENT        337 

"  if  you  will  come  into  my  room,  I  will  give  you  that 
book." 

"What  book?"  says  Baker. 

"  The  book  we  were  talking  of  this  morning." 

"  Hang  me,  if  I  know  what  you  mean,"  says  he.  And 
luckily  for  me,  Lovel,  giving  a  shrug  of  disgust,  and  a 
good-night  to  me,  stalked  out  of  the  room,  bed-candle 
in  hand.  No  doubt,  he  thought  his  wretch  of  a  brother- 
in-law  did  not  well  remember  after  dinner  what  he  had 
done  or  said  in  the  morning. 

As  I  now  had  the  Blacksheep  to  myself,  I  said  calmly, 
"  You  are  quite  right.  There  was  no  talk  about  a  book 
at  all.  Captain  Baker.  But  I  wished  to  see  you  alone, 
and  impress  upon  you  my  earnest  wish  that  everything 
which  occurred  this  morning — mind,  everything — should 
be  considered  as  strictly  private,  and  should  be  con- 
fided to  no  person  whatever — you  understand? — to  no 
person." 

"  Confound  me,"  Baker  breaks  out,  "  if  I  understand 
what  you  mean  by  your  books  and  your  'strictly  pri- 
vate.'    I  shall  speak  what  I  choose— hang  me!" 

"  In  that  case,  sir,"  I  said,  "  will  you  have  the  good- 
ness to  send  a  friend  of  yours  to  my  friend  Captain 
Fitzboodle?  I  must  consider  the  matter  as  personal 
between  ourselves.  You  insulted— and,  as  I  find  now, 
for  the  second  time — a  lady  whose  relations  to  me  you 
know.  You  have  given  neither  to  her,  nor  to  me,  the 
apology  to  which  we  are  both  entitled.  You  refuse 
even  to  promise  to  be  silent  regarding  a  painful  scene 
which  was  occasioned  by  your  own  brutal  and  cowardly 
behaviour ;  and  you  must  abide  by  the  consequences,  sir ! 
you  must  abide  by  the  consequences!"  And  I  glared 
at  him  over  my  flat  candlestick. 


338  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

"Curse  me! — and  hang  me! — and,"  &c.  &c.  &c.  he 
says,  "  if  I  know  what  all  this  is  about.  What  the  dooce 
do  you  talk  to  me  about  books,  and  about  silence,  and 
apologies,  and  sending  Captain  Fitzboodle  to  me?  I 
don't  want  to  see  Captain  Fitzboodle — great  fat  brute! 
I  know  him  perfectly  well." 

"Hush!"  say  I,  "here's  Bedford."  In  fact,  Dick 
appeared  at  this  juncture,  to  close  the  house  and  put  the 
lamps  out. 

But  Captain  Clarence  only  spoke  or  screamed  louder. 
"What  do  I  care  about  who  hears  me?  That  fellow 
insulted  me  already  to-day,  and  I'd  have  pitched  his  life 
out  of  him,  only  I  was  down,  and  I'm  so  confounded 
weak  and  nervous,  and  just  out  of  my  fever — and — 
and  hang  it  all!  what  are  you  driving  at,  Mr.  What's- 
your-name?"  And  the  wi'ctched  little  creature  cries 
almost  as  he  speaks. 

"  Once  for  all,  will  you  agree  that  the  aif air  about 
which  we  spoke  shall  go  no  further?"  I  say,  as  stern  as 
Draco. 

"  I  shan't  say  anythin'  about  it.  I  wish  you'd  leave 
me  alone,  you  fellows,  and  not  come  botherin'.  I  wash 
I  could  get  a  glass  of  brandy-and-water  up  in  my  bed- 
room. I  tell  you  I  can't  sleep  without  it,"  whimpers  the 
wretch. 

"  Sorry  I  laid  hands  on  you,  sir,"  says  Bedford,  sadly. 
"  It  wasn't  worth  the  while.  Go  to  bed,  and  I'll  get  you 
something  warm." 

"  Will  you,  though?  I  couldn't  sleep  without  it.  Do 
now— do  now!  and  I  won't  say  anythin'— I  won't  now 
—on  the  honour  of  a  gentleman,  I  won't.  Good-night, 
Mr.  What-d'ye-call."  And  Bedford  leads  the  helot 
to  his  chamber. 


I  AM  STUNG  BY  A  SERPENT        339 

"  I've  got  him  in  bed;  and  I've  given  him  a  dose;  and 
I  put  some  laudanum  in  it.  He  ain't  been  out.  He 
has  not  had  much  to-day,"  says  Bedford,  coming  back 
to  my  room,  with  his  face  ominously  pale. 

"  You  have  given  him  laudanum? "  I  ask. 

"  Saivhones  gave  him  some  yesterday, — told  me  to 
give  him  a  little — forty  drops,"  growls  Bedford. 

Then  the  gloomy  major-domo  puts  a  hand  into  each 
waistcoat  pocket,  and  looks  at  me.  "  You  want  to  fight 
for  her,  do  you,  sir?  Calling  out,  and  that  sort  of 
game?     Phoo!" — and  he  laughs  scornfully. 

"  The  little  miscreant  is  too  despicable,  I  own,"  say 
I,  "  and  it's  absurd  for  a  peaceable  fellow  like  me  to  talk 
about  powder  and  shot  at  this  time  of  day.  But  what 
could  I  do?" 

"  I  say  it's  she  ain't  worth  it,"  says  Bedford,  lifting 
up  both  clenched  fists  out  of  the  waistcoat  pockets. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Dick?  "  I  ask. 

"  She's  humbugging  you,— she's  humbugging  me,— 
she's  humbugging  everybody,"  roars  Dick.  "  Look 
here,  sir!"  and  out  of  one  of  the  clenched  fists  he  flings 
a  paper  down  on  the  table. 

"What  is  it?"  I  ask.  It's  her  handwriting.  I  see 
the  neat  trim  lines  on  the  paper. 

"  It's  not  to  you;  nor  yet  to  me,"  says  Bedford. 

"Then  how  dare  you  read  it,  sir?"  I  ask,  all  of  a 
tremble. 

"  It's  to  him.  It's  to  Sawbones,"  hisses  out  Bedford. 
"  Sawbones  dropt  it  as  he  was  getting  into  his  gig ;  and 
I  read  it.  I  ain't  going  to  make  no  bones  about  whether 
it's  wrote  to  me  or  not.  She  tells  him  how  you  asked 
her  to  marry  you.  ( Ha ! )  That's  how  I  came  to  know 
it.    And  do  you  know  what  she  calls  you,  and  what  he 


340  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

calls  you,— that  castor-hoil  beast?  And  do  you  know 
what  she  says  of  you?  That  you  hadn't  pluck  to  stand 
by  her  to-day.  There,— it's  all  down  under  her  hand 
and  seal.  You  may  read  it,  or  not,  if  you  like.  And 
if  popjjy  or  mandragora  will  medicine  you  to  sleep 
afterwards,  I  just  recommend  you  to  take  it.  I  shall 
go  and  get  a  drop  out  of  the  Captain's  bottle— I  shall." 

And  he  leaves  me,  and  the  fatal  paper  on  the  table. 

Now,  suppose  you  had  been  in  my  case— would  you, 
or  would  you  not,  have  read  the  paper?  Suppose  there 
is  some  news— bad  news— about  the  woman  you  love, 
will  you,  or  will  you  not,  hear  it?  Was  Othello  a  rogue 
because  he  let  lago  speak  to  him?  There  was  the  paper. 
It  lay  there  glimmering  under  the  light,  with  all  the 
house  quiet. 


CHAPTER  VI 

Cecilia's  successor 

^\f\   ONSIEUR  ET  HON- 
ORE     LECTEUR! 

I  see,  as  perfectly 
as  if  you  were  sit- 
ting opposite  to  me, 
the  scorn  depicted  on 
your  noble  counte- 
nance when  you  read 
my  confession  that 
I,  Charles  Batche- 
lor,  Esquire,  did  bur- 
glariously enter  the 
premises  of  Edward 
Drencher,  Esquire, 
M.R.C.S.I.  (phew! 
the  odious  pestle- 
grinder,  I  never  could 
bear  him!)  and  break  open,  and  read  a  certain  let- 
ter, his  property.  I  may  have  been  wrong,  but  I 
am  candid.  I  tell  my  misdeeds;  some  fellows  hold 
their  tongues.  Besides,  my  good  man,  consider  the 
temptation,  and  the  horrid  insight  into  the  paper 
which  Bedford's  report  had  already  given  me.  Would 
you  like  to  be  told  that  the  girl  of  your  heart 
was  playing  fast  and  loose  with  it,  had  none  of  her  own, 

341 


342  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

or  had  given  hers  to  another?  I  don't  want  to  make  a 
Mrs.  Robin  Gray  of  any  woman,  and  merely  because 
"  her  mither  presses  her  sair  "  to  marry  against  her  will. 
"If  Miss  Prior,"  thought  I,  "  prefers  this  lint-scraper 
to  me,  ought  I  to  baulk  her?  He  is  younger,  and 
stronger,  certainly,  than  myself.  Some  people  may 
consider  him  handsome.  (By  the  way,  what  a  remark- 
able thing  it  is  about  many  women,  that,  in  affairs  of 
the  heart,  they  don't  seem  to  care  or  understand  whether 
a  man  is  a  gentleman  or  not. )  It  may  be  it  is  my  supe- 
rior fortune  and  social  station  which  may  induce  Eliza- 
beth to  waver  in  her  choice  between  me  and  my  bleeding, 
bolusing,  tooth-drawing  rival.  If  so,  and  I  am  only 
taken  from  mercenary  considerations,  what  a  pretty 
chance  of  subsequent  happiness  do  either  of  us  stand! 
Take  the  vaccinator,  girl,  if  thou  preferrest  him!  I 
know  what  it  is  to  be  crossed  in  love  already.  It's  hard, 
but  I  can  bear  it!  I  ought  to  know,  I  must  know,  I 
will  know  what  is  in  that  paper ! "  So  saying,  as  I  pace 
round  and  round  the  table  where  the  letter  lies  flickering 
white  under  the  midnight  taper,  I  stretch  out  my  hand 
— I  seize  the  paper — I — well,  I  own  it — there — yes — I 
took  it,  and  I  read  it. 

Or  rather,  I  may  say,  I  read  that  part  of  it  which  the 
bleeder  and  blisterer  had  flung  down.  It  was  but  a 
fragment  of  a  letter— a  fragment— oh!  how  bitter  to 
swallow!  A  lump  of  Epsom  salt  could  not  have  been 
more  disgusting.  It  appeared  (from  Bedford's  state- 
ment) that  iEsculapius,  on  getting  into  his  gig,  had 
allowed  this  scrap  of  paper  to  whisk  out  of  his  pocket — 
the  rest  he  read,  no  doubt,  under  the  eyes  of  the  writer. 
Very  likely,  during  the  perusal,  he  had  taken  and 
squeezed  the  false  hand  which  wrote  the  lines.     Very 


CECILIA'S    SUCCESSOR  343 

likely  the  first  part  of  the  precious  document  contained 
compliments  to  him— from  the  horrible  context  I  judge 
so— compliments  to  that  vendor  of  leeches  and  band- 
ages, into  whose  heart  I  dare  say  I  wished  ten  thousand 
lancets  might  be  stuck,  as  I  perused  the  False  One's 
wheedling  address  to  him!  So  ran  the  document.  How 
well  every  word  of  it  w^as  engraven  on  mj^  anguished 
heart!  If  page  three,  which  I  suppose  w^as  about  the 
bit  of  the  letter  which  I  got,  was  as  it  was— what  must 
pages  one  and  two  have  been?  The  dreadful  document 
began,  then,  thus:  — 

"  —  dear  hair  in  the  locket,  which  I  shall  ever  wear 
for  the  sake  of  Mm  who  gave  it"—  (dear  hair!  indeed— 
disffustinff  carrots!  She  should  have  been  ashamed  to 
call  it  "  dear  hair  ")  — "  for  the  sake  of  him  who  gave  it, 
and  whose  had  temper  I  shall  pardon,  because  I  think 
in  spite  of  his  faults  he  is  a  little  fond  of  his  poor  Lizzie ! 
Ah,  EdM^ard!  how  could  you  go  on  so  the  last  time 
about  poor  ^Ir.  B.!  Can  you  imagine  that  I  can  ever 
have  more  than  a  filial  regard  for  the  kind  old  gentle- 
man?"  {II  etait  question  de  moi,  ma  parole  d'honneur. 
I  was  the  kind  old  gentleman!)  "I  have  known  him 
since  my  childhood.  He  M^as  intimate  in  our  family  in 
earlier  and  happier  days;  made  our  house  his  home; 
and,  I  must  say,  Avas  most  kind  to  all  of  us  children.  If 
he  has  vanities,  you  naughty  boy,  is  he  the  only  one  of 
his  sex  who  is  vain?  Can  you  iancy  that  such  an  old 
creature  (an  old  muff,  as  you  call  him,  you  wicked, 
satirical  man!)  could  ever  make  an  impression  on  my 
heart?  No,  sir! "  (Aha!  so  I  was  an  old  muff,  was  I?) 
"  Though  I  don't  wish  to  make  you  vain  too,  or  that 
other  people  should  laugh  at  you,  as  you  do  at  poor 
dear  Mr.  B.,  I  think,  sir,  you  need  but  look  in  your 


344  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

glass  to  see  that  you  need  not  be  afraid  of  such  a  rival 
as  that.  You  fancy  he  is  attentive  to  me?  If  you 
looked  only  a  little  angrily  at  him,  he  would  fly  back 
to  London.  To-day,  when  your  horrid  little  patient  did 
presume  to  ofl'er  to  take  my  hand,  when  I  boxed  his 
little  wicked  ears  and  sent  him  spinning  to  the  end  of 
the  room— poor  Mr.  Batch  was  so  frightened  that  he 
did  not  dare  to  come  into  the  room,  and  I  saw  him  peep- 
ing behind  a  statue  on  the  lawn,  and  he  would  not  come 
in  until  the  servants  arrived.  Poor  man!  We  cannot 
all  of  us  have  courage  like  a  certain  Edward,  who  I 
know  is  as  hold  as  a  lion.  Now,  sir,  you  must  not  be 
quarrelhng  with  that  wretched  little  captain  for  being 
rude.  I  have  shown  him  that  I  can  very  well  take  care 
of  myself.  I  knew  the  odious  thing  the  first  moment  I 
set  eyes  on  him,  though  he  had  forgotten  me.  Years 
ago  I  met  him,  and  I  remember  he  was  equally  rude  arid 
tips—'' 

Here  the  letter  was  torn.  Beyond  "  tips  "  it  did  not 
go.  But  that  was  enough,  wasn't  it?  To  this  woman 
I  had  offered  a  gentle  and  manly,  I  may  saj^  a  kind  and 
tender  heart — I  had  offered  four  hundred  a  year  in 
funded  property,  besides  my  house  in  Devonshire  Street, 
Bloomsbury — and  she  preferred  Edward,  forsooth,  at 
the  sign  of  the  Gallipot:  and  may  ten  thousand  pestles 
smash  my  brains! 

You  may  fancy  what  a  night  I  had  after  reading  that 
scrap.  I  promise  you  I  did  not  sleep  much.  I  heard 
the  hours  toll  as  I  kept  vigil.  I  lay  amidst  shattered 
capitals,  broken  shafts  of  the  tumbled  palace  which  I 
bad  built  in  imagination — oh!  how  bright  and  stately! 
I  sat  amongst  the  ruins  of  my  own  happiness,  sur- 
rounded by  the  murdered  corpses  of  innocent-visioned 


CECILIA'S   SUCCESSOR  345 

domestic  joys.  Tick— tock!  Moment  after  moment  I 
heard  on  the  clock  the  chnking  footsteps  of  wakeful 
grief.  I  fell  into  a  doze  towards  morning,  and  dreamed 
that  I  was  dancing  with  Glorvina,  when  I  woke  with  a 
start,  finding  Bedford  arrived  with  my  shaving-water, 
and  opening  the  shutters.  When  he  saw  my  haggard 
face  he  wagged  his  head. 

"  You  have  read  it,  I  see,  sir,"  says  he. 

"  Yes,  Dick,"  groaned  I,  out  of  bed,  "  I  have  swal- 
lowed it."  And  I  laughed  I  may  say  a  fiendish  laugh. 
"  And  now  I  have  taken  it,  not  poppy  nor  mandragora, 
nor  all  the  drowsy  syrups  in  his  shop  (hang  him)  will 
be  able  to  medicine  me  to  sleep  for  some  time  to  come ! " 

"  She  has  no  heart,  sir.  I  don't  think  she  cares  for 
t'other  chap  much,"  groans  the  gloomy  butler.  "  She 
can't,  after  having  known  us'' — and  my  companion  in 
grief,  laying  down  my  hot-water  jug,  retreats. 

I  did  not  cut  any  part  of  myself  with  my  razor.  I 
shaved  quite  calmly.  I  went  to  the  family  at  breakfast. 
My  impression  is  I  was  sarcastic  and  witty.  I  smiled 
most  kindly  at  Miss  Prior  when  she  came  in.  Nobody 
could  have  seen  from  my  outward  behaviour  that  any- 
thing was  wrong  within.  I  was  an  apple.  Could  you 
inspect  the  worm  at  my  core?  No,  no.  Somebody,  I 
think  old  Baker,  complimented  me  on  my  good  looks. 
I  was  a  smiling  lake.  Could  you  see  on  my  placid  sur- 
face, amongst  my  sheeny  water-lilies,  that  a  corpse  was 
lying  under  my  cool  depths?  "A  bit  of  devilled 
chicken?"  "No,  thank  you.  By  the  way,  Lovel,  I 
think  I  must  go  to  town  to-day."  "  You'll  come  back 
todinner,  of  course?"  "Well-no."  "Oh,  stuff!  You 
promised  me  to-day  and  to-morrow.  Robinson,  Brown, 
and  Jones  are  coming  to-morrow,  and  you  must  be  here 


346  LOVEL   THE    WIDOWER 

to  meet  them."  Thus  we  prattle  on.  I  answer,  I 
smile,  I  say,  "  Yes,  if  you  please,  another  cup,"  or,  "  Be 
so  good  as  to  hand  the  muffins,"  or  what  not.  But  I  am 
dead.  I  feel  as  if  I  am  under  ground,  and  buried. 
Life,  and  tea,  and  clatter,  and  muffins  are  going  on,  of 
course;  and  daisies  spring,  and  the  sun  shines  on  the 
grass  whilst  I  am  under  it.  All,  dear  me!  it's  very 
cruel:  it's  very,  very  lonely:  it's  very  odd!  I  don't  be- 
long to  the  world  any  more.  I  have  done  with  it.  I  am 
shelved  away.  But  my  spirit  returns  and  ffitters 
through  the  world,  which  it  has  no  longer  anything  to 
do  with:  and  my  ghost,  as  it  were,  comes  and  smiles  at 
my  own  tombstone.  Here  lies  Charles  Batchelor,  the 
Unloved  One.  Oh!  alone,  alone,  alone!  Why,  Fate! 
didst  thou  ordain  that  I  should  be  companionless  ?  Tell 
me  where  the  Wandering  Jew  is,  that  I  may  go  and  sit 
with  him.  Is  there  any  place  at  a  lighthouse  vacant? 
Who  knows  where  is  the  Island  of  Juan  Fernandez? 
Engage  me  a  ship  and  take  me  there  at  once.  Mr.  R. 
Crusoe,  I  think?  My  dear  Robinson,  have  the  kindness 
to  hand  me  over  your  goatskin  cap,  breeches,  and  um- 
brella. Go  home,  and  leave  me  here.  Would  you 
know  who  is  the  solitariest  man  on  earth?  That  man 
am  I.  Was  that  cutlet  which  I  ate  at  breakfast  anon, 
was  that  lamb  which  frisked  on  the  mead  last  week  (be- 
yond yon  wall  where  the  unconscious  cucumber  lay  bask- 
ing which  was  to  form  his  sauce )  —  I  say,  was  that  lamb 
made  so  tender,  that  I  might  eat  him?  And  my  heart, 
then?  Poor  heart!  wert  thou  so  softly  constituted  only 
that  women  might  stab  thee?  So  I  am  a  Muff,  am  I? 
And  she  will  always  wear  a  lock  of  his  "  dear  hair,"  will 
she?  Ha!  ha!  The  men  on  the  omnibus  looked  askance 
as  they  saw  me  laugh.     They  thought  it  was  from  Han- 


CECILIA'S   SUCCESSOR  347 

well,  not  Putney,  I  was  escaping.  Escape?  Who  can 
escape?  I  went  into  London.  I  went  to  the  clubs. 
Jawkins,  of  course,  was  there;  and  my  impression  is 
that  he  talked  as  usual.  I  took  another  omnibus,  and 
went  back  to  Putney.  "  I  will  go  back  and  revisit  my 
grave,"  I  thought.  It  is  said  that  ghosts  loiter  about 
their  former  haunts  a  good  deal  when  they  are  &st  dead ; 
flit  wistfully  among  their  old  friends  and  companions, 
and,  I  dare  say,  expect  to  hear  a  plenty  of  conversation 
and  friendly  tearful  remark  about  themselves.  But 
suppose  they  return,  and  find  nobody  talking  of  them 
at  all?  Or  suppose,  Hamlet  (Pere,  and  Royal  Dane) 
comes  back  and  finds  Claudius  and  Gertrude  very  com- 
fortable over  a  piece  of  cold  meat,  or  what  not?  Is  the 
late  gentleman's  present  position  as  a  ghost  a  very 
pleasant  one?  Crow,  Cocks!  Quick,  Sundawn!  Oj)en, 
Trap-door!  Allans :  it's  best  to  pop  underground 
again.  So  I  am  a  Muff,  am  I?  What  a  curious  thing 
that  walk  up  the  hill  to  the  house  was!  What  a  dif- 
ferent place  Shrublands  was  yesterday  to  what  it  is  to- 
day! Has  the  sun  lost  its  light,  and  the  flowers  their 
bloom,  and  the  joke  its  sparkle,  and  the  dish  its  savour? 
Why,  bless  my  soul!  what  is  Lizzy  herself— only  an 
ordinary  woman — freckled  certainly — incorrigibly  dull, 
and  without  a  scintillation  of  humour :  and  you  mean  to 
say,  Charles  Batchelor,  that  your  heart  once  beat  about 
that  woman?  Under  the  intercepted  letter  of  that  cold 
assassin,  my  heart  had  fallen  down  dead,  irretrievably 
dead.  I  remember,  apropos  of  the  occasion  of  my  first 
death,  that  perpetrated  by  Glorvina — on  my  second  visit 
to  Dublin — with  what  a  strange  sensation  I  walked 
under  some  trees  in  the  Phoenix  Park  beneath  which  it 
had  been  my  custom  to  meet  my  False  One  Number  I. 


348  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

There  were  the  trees— there  were  the  birds  singing— 
there  was  the  bench  on  which  we  used  to  sit— the  same, 
but  how  different!  The  trees  had  a  different  foHage, 
exquisite  amaranthine;  the  birds  sang  a  song  para- 
disiacal; the  bench  was  a  bank  of  roses  and  fresh 
flowers,  which  young  Love  twined  in  fragrant  chap- 
lets  around  the  statue  of  Glorvina.  Roses  and  fresh 
flowers?  Rheumatisms  and  flannel-waistcoats,  you 
silly  old  man!  Foliage  and  Song?  O  namby- 
pamby  driveller!  A  statue?— a  doll,  thou  twaddling 
old  dullard!— a  doll  with  carmine  cheeks,  and  a  heart 
stuffed  with  bran— I  say,  on  the  night  preceding 
that  ride  to  and  from  Putney,  I  had  undergone 
death— in  that  omnibus  I  had  been  carried  over  to 
t'other  side  of  the  Stygian  shore.  I  returned  but  as  a 
passionless  ghost,  remembering  my  hfe-days,  but  not 
feeling  any  more.  Love  was  dead,  Elizabeth!  Why, 
the  doctor  came,  and  partook  freely  of  lunch,  and  I  was 
not  angry.  Yesterday  I  called  him  names,  and  hated 
him,  and  was  jealous  of  him.  To-day  I  felt  no  rival- 
shij) ;  and  no  envy  at  his  success ;  and  no  desire  to  sup- 
plant him.  No— I  swear— not  the  slightest  wish  to 
make  Elizabeth  mine  if  she  would.  I  might  have  cared 
for  her  yesterday— yesterday  I  had  a  heart.  Psha!  my 
good  sir  or  madam.  You  sit  by  me  at  dinner.  Perhaps 
you  are  handsome,  and  use  your  eyes.  Ogle  away. 
Don't  baulk  yourself,  pray.  But  if  j^ou  fancy  I  care  a 
three-penny-piece  about  you— or  for  your  eyes— or  for 
your  bonny  brown  hair— or  for  your  sentimental  re- 
marks, sidelong  warbled— or  for  your  praise  to  (not  of) 
my  face— or  for  your  satire  behind  my  back— ah  me!— 
how  mistaken  you  are!  Peine  perdue,  ma  cJiere  dame! 
The  digestive  organs  are  still  in  good  working  order- 
but  the  heart  ?     Caret, 


CECILIA'S   SUCCESSOR  349 

I  was  perfectly  civil  to  Mr.  Drencher,  and,  indeed, 
wonder  to  think  how  in  my  irritation  I  had  allowed  my- 
self to  apply  (mentally)  any  sort  of  disagreeable 
phrases  to  a  most  excellent  and  deserving  and  good- 
looking  young  man,  who  is  beloved  by  the  poor,  and  has 
won  the  just  confidence  of  an  extensive  circle  of  patients. 
I  made  no  sort  of  remark  to  Miss  Prior,  except  about 
the  weather  and  the  flowers  in  the  garden.  I  was  bland, 
easy,  rather  pleasant,  not  too  high-spirited,  you  under- 
stand.—No:  I  vow  you  could  not  have  seen  a  nerve 
wince,  or  the  slightest  alteration  in  my  demeanour.  I 
helped  the  two  old  dowagers;  I  listened  to  their  twad- 
dle; I  gaily  wiped  up  with  my  napkin  three-quarters 
of  a  glass  of  sherry  which  Popham  flung  over  my 
trousers.  I  would  defy  you  to  know  that  I  had  gone 
through  the  ticklish  operation  of  an  excision  of  the  heart 
a  few  hours  previously.  Heart— pooh!  I  saw  Miss 
Prior's  lip  quiver.  Without  a  word  between  us,  she 
knew  perfectly  well  that  all  was  over  as  regarded  her 
late  humble  servant.  She  winced  once  or  twice.  While 
Drencher  was  busy  with  his  plate,  the  grey  eyes  cast 
towards  me  inter jectional  looks  of  puzzled  entreaty. 
She,  I  say,  winced;  and  I  give  you  my  word  I  did  not 
care  a  fig  whether  she  was  sorry,  or  pleased,  or  happy, 
or  going  to  be  hung.  And  I  can't  give  a  better  proof 
of  my  utter  indifference  about  the  matter,  than  the  fact 
that  I  wrote  two  or  three  copies  of  verses  descriptive  of 
my  despair.  They  appeared,  you  may  perhaps  remem- 
ber, in  one  of  the  annuals  of  those  days,  and  were  gen- 
erally attributed  to  one  of  the  most  sentimental  of  our 
young  poets.  I  remember  the  reviews  said  they  were 
"  replete  with  emotion,"  "  full  of  passionate  and  earnest 
feeling,"  and  so  forth.  Feehng,  indeed!— ha!  ha! 
"Passionate   outbursts   of   a   grief -stricken   heart!"— 


350  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

Passionate  scrapings  of  a  fiddlestick,  my  good  friend. 
"  Lonely  "  of  course  rhymes  with  "  only,"  and  "  gushes  " 
with  "  blushes,"  and  "  despair  "  with  "  hair,"  and  so  on. 
Despair  is  perfectly  compatible  with  a  good  dinner,  I 
promise  you.  Hair  is  false:  hearts  are  false.  Grapes 
may  be  sour,  but  claret  is  good,  my  masters.  Do  you 
suppose  I  am  going  to  ciy  my  eyes  out,  because  Chloe's 
are  turned  upon  Strephon?  If  you  find  any  whimper- 
ing in  mine,  may  they  never  wink  at  a  bee's-wing  again. 

When  the  Doctor  rose  presently,  saying  he  would  go 
and  see  the  gardener's  child,  who  was  ill,  and  casting 
longing  looks  at  Miss  Prior,  I  assure  you  I  did  not  feel 
a  tittle  of  jealousy,  though  Miss  Bessy  actually  followed 
Mr.  Drencher  into  the  lawn,  under  the  pretext  of  calling 
back  Miss  Cissy,  who  had  run  thither  without  her 
bonnet. 

"Now,  Lady  Baker,  which  was  right?  you  or  I?" 
asks  bonny  Mrs.  Bonnington,  wagging  her  head  towards 
the  lawn  where  this  couple  of  innocents  were  disporting. 

"  You  thought  there  was  an  affair  between  Miss 
Prior  and  the  medical  gentleman,"  I  say,  smiling.  "  It 
was  no  secret,  Mrs.  Bonnington." 

"  Yes,  but  there  were  others  who  were  a  little  smitten 
in  that  quarter,  too,"  says  Lady  Baker;  and  she  in  turn 
wags  her  old  head  towards  me. 

"You  mean  me?"  I  answer,  as  innocent  as  a  new- 
born babe.  "I  am  a  burnt  child,  Lady  Baker;  I  have 
been  at  the  fire,  and  am  already  thoroughly  done,  thank 
you.  One  of  your  charming  sex  jilted  me  some  j^ears 
ago;  and  once  is  quite  enough,  I  am  much  obliged  to 
you." 

This  I  said,  not  because  it  was  true ;  in  fact,  it  was  the 
reverse  of  truth;  but  if  I  choose  to  lie  about  my  own 


CECILIA'S   SUCCESSOR  351 

affairs,  pray,  why  not?  And  though  a  strictly  tmth- 
telHng  man  generally,  when  I  do  lie,  I  promise  you  I  do 
it  boldly  and  well. 

"If,  as  I  gather  from  Mrs.  Bonnington,  Mr, 
Drencher  and  ]Miss  Prior  like  each  other,  I  wish  my  old 
friend  joy.  I  wish  IVIr.  Drencher  joy  with  all  my  heart. 
The  match  seems  to  me  excellent.  He  is  a  deserving, 
a  clever,  and  a  handsome  young  fellow ;  and  I  am  sure, 
ladies,  you  can  bear  witness  to  her  goodness,  after  all 
you  have  known  of  her." 

"My  dear  Batchelor,"  says  Mrs.  Bonnington,  still 
smiling  and  winking,  "  I  don't  believe  one  single  word 
you  say— not  one  single  word!"  And  she  looks  infi- 
nitely pleased  as  she  speaks. 

"Oh!"  cries  Lady  Baker,  "my  good  Mrs.  Bonning- 
ton, you  are  always  match-making — don't  contradict  me. 
You  know  you  thought — " 

"  Oh,  please  don't,"  cries  Mrs.  B. 

"  I  will.  She  thought,  Mr.  Batchelor,  she  actually 
thought  that  our  son,  that  my  Cecilia's  husband,  was 
smitten  by  the  governess.  I  should  like  to  have  seen 
him  dare!"  and  her  flashing  eyes  turn  towards  the  late 
Mrs.  Lovel's  portrait,  with  its  faded  simper  leering  over 
the  harp.  "  The  idea  that  any  woman  could  succeed 
that  angel,  indeed!" 

"  Indeed,  I  don't  envy  her,"  I  said. 

"You  don't  mean,  Batchelor,  that  my  Frederick 
would  not  make  any  woman  happy? "  cries  the  Bonning- 
ton. "  He  is  only  seven-and-thirty,  very  young  for  his 
age,  and  the  most  affectionate  of  creatures.  I  am  sur- 
prised, and  it's  most  cruel,  and  most  unkind  of  you,  to 
say  that  you  don't  envy  any  woman  that  marries  my 
boy!" 


352  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

"My  dear  good  Mrs.  Bonnington,  you  quite  misap- 
prehend me,"  I  remark. 

"  Why,  when  his  late  wife  was  aHve,"  goes  on  Mrs. 
B ,  sobbing,  "  j^ou  know  with  what  admirable  sweet- 
ness and  gentleness  he  bore  her — her — bad  temper — ex- 
cuse me,  Lady  Baker!" 

"  Oh,  pray,  abuse  my  departed  angel ! "  cries  the 
Baker;  "  say  that  your  son  should  marry  and  forget  her 
— say  that  those  darlings  should  be  made  to  forget  their 
mother.  She  was  a  woman  of  birth,  and  a  woman  of 
breeding,  and  a  woman  of  family,  and  the  Bakers  came 
in  with  the  Conqueror,  Mrs.  Bonnington — " 

"  I  think  I  heard  of  one  in  the  court  of  Pharaoh,"  I 
interposed. 

"  And  to  say  that  a  Baker  is  not  worthy  of  a  Lovel  is 
pretty  news  indeed!     Do  you  hear  that,  Clarence?" 

"Hear  what,  ma'am?"  says  Clarence,  who  enters  at 
this  juncture.  "  You're  speakin'  loud  enough— though 
blesht  if  I  hear  two  sh-shyllables." 

"You  wretched  boy,  you  have  been  smoking!" 

"  Shmoking— haven't  I? "  says  Clarence  with  a  laugh; 
"  and  I've  been  at  the  '  Five  Bells,'  and  I've  been  having 
a  game  of  billiards  with  an  old  friend  of  mine,"  and  he 
lurches  towards  a  decanter. 

"Ah!  don't  drink  any  more,  my  child!"  cries  the 
mother. 

"  I'm  as  sober  as  a  judge,  I  tell  you.  You  leave  so 
precious  little  in  the  bottle  at  dinner,  that  I  must  get  it 
when  I  can,  mustn't  I,  Batchelor,  old  boy?  We  had  a 
row  yesterday,  hadn't  we?  No,  it  was  sugar-baker. 
I'm  not  angry— you're  not  angry.  Bear  no  malish. 
Here's  your  health,  old  boy!" 


CECILIA'S  SUCCESSOR  353 

The  unhappy  gentleman  drank  his  bumper  of  sherry, 
and,  tossing  his  hair  off  his  head,  said— "Where's  the 
governess — where's  Bessy  Bellenden?  Who's  that 
kickin'  me  under  the  table,  I  say?" 

"Where  is  who?"  asks  his  mother. 

"  Bessy  Bellenden— the  governess— that's  her  real 
name.  Known  her  these  ten  years.  Used  to  dansh  at 
Prinsh's  Theatre.  Remember  her  in  the  corps-de-bal- 
let. Ushed  to  go  behind  the  shenes.  Dooshid  pretty 
girl! "  maunders  out  the  tipsy  youth;  and  as  the  uncon- 
scious subject  of  his  mischievous  talk  enters  the  room, 
again  he  cries  out,  "  Come  and  sit  by  me,  Bessy  Bellen- 
den, I  say!" 

The  matrons  rose  with  looks  of  horror  in  their  faces. 
"  A  ballet-dancer! "  cries  Mrs.  Bonnington.  "  A  ballet- 
dancer!"  echoes  Lady  Baker.  "Young  woman,  is  this 
true?" 

"  The  Bulbul  and  the  Roshe — hay? "  laughs  the  Cap- 
tain. "Don't  you  remember  you  and  Fosbery  in  blue 
and  shpangles?  Always  all  right,  though,  Bellenden 
was.  Fosbery  washn't:  but  Bellenden  was.  Give  you 
every  credit  for  that,  Bellenden.  Boxsh  my  earsh.  Bear 
no  malish — no — no — malish!  Get  some  more  sherry, 
you — whatsh  your  name — Bedford,  butler — and  I'll  pay 
you  the  money  I  owe  you."  And  he  laughs  his  wild 
laugh,  utterly  unconscious  of  the  effect  he  is  producing. 
Bedford  stands  staring  at  him  as  pale  as  death.  Poor 
Miss  Prior  is  as  white  as  marble.  Wrath,  terror,  and 
wonder  are  in  the  countenances  of  the  dowagers.  It  is 
an  awful  scene! 

"  Mr.  Batchelor  knows  that  it  was  to  help  my  family 
I  did  it,"  says  the  poor  governess. 


354  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

"  Yes,  by  George!  and  nobody  can  say  a  word  against 
her,"  bursts  in  Dick  Bedford,  with  a  sob ;  "  and  she  is 
as  honest  as  any  woman  here." 

"Pray,  who  told  you  to  put  your  oar  in?"  cries  the 
tipsy  Captain. 

"  And  you  knew  that  this  person  was  on  the  stage, 
and  you  introduced  her  into  my  son's  family?  Oh,  Mr. 
Batchelor,  Mr.  Batchelor,  I  didn't  think  it  of  you! 
Don't  speak  to  me,  Miss!"  cries  the  flurried  Bon- 
nington. 

"  You  brought  this  woman  to  the  children  of  my 
adored  Cecilia?"  calls  out  the  other  dowager.  "Ser- 
pent, leave  the  room!  Pack  your  trunks,  viper!  and  quit 
the  house  this  instant.  Don't  touch  her.  Cissy.  Come 
to  me,  my  blessing.     Go  away,  you  horrid  wretch!" 

"She  ain't  a  horrid  wretch;  and  when  I  was  ill  she 
was  very  good  to  us,"  breaks  in  Pop,  with  a  roar  of 
tears:  "  and  you  shan't  go,  Miss  Prior— my  dear,  pretty 
Miss  Prior.  You  shan't  go!"  and  the  child  rushes  up 
to  the  governess,  and  covers  her  neck  with  tears  and 
kisses. 

"Leave  her,  Popham  my  darling  blessing!— leave 
that  woman!"  cries  Lady  Baker. 

"I  won't,  you  old  beast!— and  she  sha-a-an't  go. 
And  I  wish  you  was  dead— and,  my  dear,  you  shan't  go, 
and  Pa  shan't  let  you!"— shouts  the  boy. 

"  Oh,  Popham,  if  Miss  Prior  has  been  naughty,  Miss 
Prior  must  go! "  says  Cecilia,  tossing  up  her  head. 

"Spoken  like  my  daughter's  child!"  cries  Lady 
Baker:  and  little  Cissy,  having  flung  her  little  stone, 
looks  as  if  she  had  performed  a  very  virtuous  action. 

"  God  bless  you.  Master  Pop,— you  are  a  trump,  you 
are! "  says  Mr.  Bedford. 


CECILIA'S  SUCCESSOR  355 

"Yes,  that  I  am,  Bedford;  and  she  shan't  go,  shall 
she?"  cries  the  boy. 

But  Bessy  stooped  down  sadly,  and  kissed  him.  "  Yes, 
I  must,  dear,"  she  said. 

"Don't  touch  him!  Come  away,  sir!  Come  away 
from  her  this  moment!"  shrieked  the  two  mothers. 

"  I  nursed  him  through  the  scarlet  fever,  when  his 
own  mother  would  not  come  near  him,"  says  Elizabeth, 
gently. 

"I'm  blest  if  she  didn't,"  sobs  Bedford — "and — bub 
— bub — bless  you.  Master  Pop! " 

"  That  child  is  wicked  enough,  and  headstrong  enough, 
and  rude  enough  already!"  exclaims  Lady  Baker.  "  I 
desire,  young  woman,  you  will  not  pollute  him  further! " 

"  That's  a  hard  word  to  say  to  an  honest  woman, 
ma'am,"  says  Bedford. 

"Pray,  INIiss,  are  you  engaged  to  the  butler,  too?" 
hisses  out  the  dowager. 

"  There's  very  little  the  matter  with  Barnet's  child — 

only    teeth What    on    earth    has    happened? 

My  dear  Lizzy — my  dear  Miss  Prior — what  is  it?" 
cries  the  Doctor,  who  enters  from  the  garden  at  this 
juncture. 

"  Nothing  has  happened,  only  this  young  woman  has 
appeared  in  a  new  character"  says  Lady  Baker.  " My 
son  has  just  informed  us  that  Miss  Prior  danced  upon 
the  stage,  Mr.  Drencher ;  and  if  you  think  such  a  person 
is  a  fit  companion  for  your  mother  and  sisters,  who  at- 
tend a  place  of  Christian  worship,  I  believe— I  wish  you 

joy." 

"  Is  this — is  this — true? "  asks  the  Doctor,  wdth  a  look 
of  bewilderment. 

"  Yes,  it  is  true,"  sighs  the  girl. 


356  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

"And  you  never  told  me,  Elizabeth?"  groans  the 
Doctor. 

"  She's  as  honest  as  any  woman  here,"  calls  out  Bed- 
ford.   "  She  gave  all  the  money  to  her  family." 

"  It  wasn't  fair  not  to  tell  me.  It  wasn't  fair,"  sobs 
the  Doctor.  And  he  gives  her  a  ghastly  parting  look, 
and  turns  his  back. 

"  I  say,  you— Hi !  What-d'you-call-'im?  Sawbones! " 
shrieks  out  Captain  Clarence.  "  Come  back,  I  say. 
She's  all  right,  I  say.  Upon  my  honour,  now,  she's  all 
right." 

"  Miss  P shouldn't  have  kept  this  from  me.    My 

mother  and  sisters  are  Dissenters,  and  very  strict.  I 
couldn't  ask  a  party  into  my  family  who  has  been— who 
has  been— I  wish  you  good  morning,"  says  the  Doctor, 
and  stalks  away. 

"And  now,  will  you  please  to  get  your  things  ready, 
and  go,  too?"  continues  Lady  Baker.  "My  dear  Mrs. 
Bonnington,  you  think — " 

"  Certainly,  certainly,  she  must  go!"  cries  Mrs.  Bon- 
nington. 

"  Don't  go  till  Lovel  comes  home,  Miss.  These  ain't 
your  mistresses.  Lady  Baker  don't  pay  your  salary. 
If  you  go,  I  go,  too.  There!"  calls  out  Bedford,  and 
mumbles  something  in  her  ear  about  "the  end  of  the 
world." 

"You  go,  too;  and  a  good  riddance,  you  insolent 
brute !  "  exclaims  the  dowager. 

"Oh,  Captain  Clarence!  you  have  made  a  pretty 
morning's  work,"  I  say. 

"  I  don't  know  what  the  dooce  all  the  sherry— all  the 
shinty's  about,"  says  the  Captain,  playing  with  the  empty 
decanter.    "  Gal's  a  very  good  gal— pretty  gal.     If  she 


CECILIA'S  SUCCESSOR  357 

choosesh  dansh  shport  her  family,  why  the  doosh 
shouldn't  she  dansh  shport  a  family  ? " 

"  That  is  exactly  what  I  recommend  this  person  to 
do,"  says  Lady  Baker,  tossing  up  her  head.  "And  now 
I  will  thank  you  to  leave  the  room.    Do  you  hear? " 

As  poor  Elizabeth  obeyed  this  order,  Bedford  darted 
after  her ;  and  I  know  ere  she  had  gone  five  steps  he  had 
offered  her  his  savings  and  everything  he  had.  She 
might  have  had  mine  yesterday.  But  she  had  deceived 
me.  She  had  played  fast  and  loose  with  me.  She  had 
misled  me  about  this  Doctor.  I  could  trust  her  no  more. 
My  love  of  yesterday  was  dead,  I  say.  That  vase  was 
broken,  which  never  could  be  mended.  She  knew  all  was 
over  between  us.  She  did  not  once  look  at  me  as  she  left 
the  room. 

The  two  dowagers— one  of  them,  I  think,  a  little 
alarmed  at  her  victory — left  the  house,  and  for  once  went 
away  in  the  same  barouche.  The  young  maniac  who  had 
been  the  cause  of  the  mischief  staggered  away,  I  know 
not  whither. 

About  four  o'clock,  poor  little  Pinhorn,  the  children's 
maid,  came  to  me,  well  nigh  choking  with  tears,  as  she 
handed  me  a  letter.  "  She's  goin'  away — and  she  saved 
both  them  children's  lives,  she  did.  And  she've  wrote  to 
you,  sir.  And  Bedford's  a-goin'.  And  I'll  give  warnin', 
I  will,  too ! "  And  the  weeping  handmaiden  retires,  leav- 
ing me,  perhaps  somewhat  frightened,  with  the  letter  in 
my  hand. 

"Dear  sir,"  she  said— "I  may  write  you  a  line  of 
thanks  and  farewell.  I  shall  go  to  my  mother.  I  shall 
soon  find  another  place.  Poor  Bedford,  who  has  a  gen- 
erous heart,  told  me  that  he  had  given  you  a  letter  of 
mine  to  INIr.  D .    I  saw  this  morning  that  you  knew 


358  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

everything.  I  can  only  say  now  that  for  all  your  long 
kindnesses  and  friendship  to  my  family  I  am  always 
your  sincere  and  grateful — E.  P." 

Yes:  that  was  all.  I  think  she  «;a^  grateful.  But  she 
had  not  been  candid  with  me,  nor  with  the  poor  surgeon. 
I  had  no  anger :  far  from  it :  a  great  deal  of  regard  and 
goodwill,  nay  admiration,  for  the  intrepid  girl  who  had 
played  a  long,  hard  part  very  cheerfully  and  bravely. 
But  my  foolish  little  flicker  of  love  had  blazed  up  and 
gone  out  in  a  day ;  I  knew  that  she  never  could  care  for 
me.  In  that  dismal,  wakeful  night,  after  reading  the 
letter,  I  had  thought  her  character  and  story  over,  and 
seen  to  what  a  life  of  artifice  and  dissimulation  necessity 
had  compelled  her.  I  did  not  blame  her.  In  such  cir- 
cumstances, with  such  a  family,  how  could  she  be  frank 
and  open  ?  Poor  thing !  poor  thing !  Do  we  know  any- 
body? Ah!  dear  me,  we  are  most  of  us  very  lonely  in 
the  world.  You  who  have  any  who  love  you,  cling  to 
them,  and  thank  God.  I  went  into  the  hall  towards 
evening :  her  poor  trunks  and  packages  were  there,  and 
the  little  nurserymaid  weeping  over  them.  The  sight 
unmanned  me;  and  I  believe  I  cried  myself.  Poor 
Elizabeth !  And  w^ith  these  small  chests  you  recommence 
your  life's  lonely  voyage!  I  gave  the  girl  a  couple  of 
sovereigns.  She  sobbed  a  God  bless  me!  and  burst  out 
crying  more  desperately  than  ever.  Thou  hast  a  kind 
heart,  little  Pinliorn ! 

"  *  Miss  Prior— to  be  called  for.'  Whose  trunks  are 
these?"  says  Lovel,  coming  from  the  city.  The  dow- 
agers drove  up  at  the  same  moment. 

"Didn't  you  see  us  from  the  omnibus,  Frederick?" 
cries  her  ladyship,  coaxingly.  "  We  followed  behind  you 
all  the  way!" 


CECILIA'S  SUCCESSOR  359 

"We  were  in  the  barouche,  my  dear,"  remarks  Mrs. 
Bonnington,  rather  nervously. 

"Whose  trunks  are  these? — what's  the  matter? — and 
what's  the  girl  crying  for?  "  asks  Lovel. 

"  Miss  Prior  is  a-going  away,"  sobs  Pinhorn. 

"Miss  Prior  going?  Is  this  your  doing,  my  Lady 
Baker? — or  yours,  mother?"  the  master  of  the  house 
says,  sternly. 

"  She  is  going,  my  love,  because  she  cannot  stay  in  this 
family,"  says  mamma. 

"  That  woman  is  no  fit  companion  for  my  angel's  chil- 
dren, Frederick! "  cries  Lady  B. 

"That  person  has  deceived  us  all,  my  love!"  says 
mamma. 

"  Deceived? — how?  Deceived  whom? "  continues  Mr. 
Lovel,  more  and  more  hotly. 

"Clarence,  love!  come  down,  dear!  Tell  Mr.  Lovel 
everything.  Come  down  and  tell  him  this  moment,"  cries 
Lady  Baker  to  her  son,  who  at  this  moment  appears  on 
the  corridor  which  was  round  the  hall. 

"What's  the  row  now,  pray?"  And  Captain  Clar- 
ence descends,  breaking  his  shins  over  poor  Elizabeth's 
trunks,  and  calling  down  on  them  his  usual  maledic- 
tions. 

"  Tell  Mr.  Lovel  where  you  saw  that— that  person, 
Clarence?    Now,  sir,  listen  to  my  Cecilia's  brother! " 

"  Saw  her — saw  her  in  blue  and  spangles,  in  the  '  Rose 
and  the  Bulbul,'  at  the  Prince's  Theatre— and  a  doosid 
nice-looking  girl  she  was  too!"  says  the  Captain. 

"There,  sir!" 

"There,  Frederick!"  cry  the  matrons  in  a  breath. 

"And  what  then? "  asks  Lovel. 

"Mercy!  you  ask,  What  then,  Frederick?  Do  you 
know  what  a  theatre  is?    Tell  Frederick  what  a  theatre 


360  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

is,  Mr.  Batchelor,  and  that  my  grandchildren  must  not 
be  educated  by — " 

"My  grandchildren— my  Cecilia's  children,"  shrieks 
the  other,  "must  not  be  pol-luted  by—" 

"  Silence! "  I  say.  "  Have  you  a  word  against  her— 
have  you,  pray.  Baker?" 

"  No.  'Gad !  I  never  said  a  word  against  her,"  says 
the  Captain.     "  No,  hang  me,  you  know— but— " 

"  But  suppose  I  knew  the  fact  the  whole  time? "  asks 
Lovel,  with  rather  a  blush  on  his  cheek.  "  Suppose  I 
knew  that  she  danced  to  give  her  family  bread?  Sup- 
pose I  knew  that  she  toiled  and  laboured  to  support  her 
parents,  and  brothers  and  sisters?  Suppose  I  know  that 
out  of  her  pittance  she  has  continued  to  support  them? 
Suppose  I  know  that  she  watched  my  own  children 
through  fever  and  danger?  For  these  reasons  I  must 
turn  her  out  of  doors,  must  I?  No,  by  heaven!— No!— 
Elizabeth!— Miss  Prior! — Come  down!— Come  here,  I 
beg  you!" 

The  governess,  arrayed  as  for  departure,  at  this  mo- 
ment appeared  on  the  corridor  running  round  the  hall. 
As  Lovel  continued  to  speak  very  loud  and  resolute,  she 
came  down  looking  deadly  pale. 

Still  much  excited,  the  widower  went  up  to  her  and 
took  her  hand.  "Dear  Miss  Prior!"  he  said — "dear 
Elizabeth!  you  have  been  the  best  friend  of  me  and 
mine.  You  tended  my  wife  in  illness,  you  took  care  of 
my  children  in  fever  and  danger.  You  have  been  an 
admirable  sister,  daughter  in  your  own  family — and  for 
this,  and  for  these  benefits  conferred  upon  us,  my  rela- 
tives— my  mother-in-law — would  drive  you  out  of  my 
doors!    It  shall  not  be! — by  heavens,  it  shall  not  be! " 

You  should  have  seen  little  Bedford  sitting  on  the 


CECILIA'S  SUCCESSOR  361 

governess's  box,  shaking  his  fist,  and  crying  "  Hurrah! " 
as  his  master  spoke.  By  this  time  the  loud  voices  and  the 
altercation  in  the  hall  had  brought  a  half-dozen  of  ser- 
vants from  their  quarters  into  the  hall.  "  Go  away,  all 
of  you!"  shouts  Lovel;  and  the  domestic  'posse  retires, 
Bedford  being  the  last  to  retreat,  and  nodding  approval 
at  his  master  as  he  backs  out  of  the  room. 

"  You  are  very  good,  and  kind,  and  generous,  sir," 
says  the  pale  Elizabeth,  putting  a  handkerchief  to  her 
eyes.  "But  without  the  confidence  of  these  ladies, 
I  must  not  stay,  Mr.  Lovel.  God  bless  you  for  your 
goodness  to  me.  I  must,  if  you  please,  return  to  my 
mother." 

The  worthy  gentleman  looked  fiercely  round  at  the 
two  elder  women,  and  again  seizing  the  governess's  hand, 
said— "Elizabeth!  dear  Elizabeth!  I  implore  you  not 
to  go!    If  you  love  the  children — " 

"  Oh,  sir! "  (A  cambric  veil  covers  Miss  Prior's  emo- 
tion, and  the  expression  of  her  face,  on  this  ejaculation.) 

"  If  you  love  the  children,"  gasps  out  the  widower, 
"stay  with  them.  If  you  have  a  regard  for— for  their 
father "— (Timanthes,  where  is  thy  pocket-handker- 
chief?) — "  remain  in  this  house,  with  such  a  title  as  none 
can  question.    Be  the  mistress  of  it." 

"  His  mistress— and  before  me ! "  screams  Lady  Baker. 
"Mrs.  Bonnington,  this  depravity  is  monstrous!" 

"  Be  my  wife,  dear  Elizabeth! "  the  widower  continues. 
"  Continue  to  watch  over  the  children,  who  shall  be 
motherless  no  more." 

"  Frederick!  Frederick!  haven't  they  got  us?"  shrieks 
one  of  the  old  ladies. 

"Oh,  my  poor  dear  Lady  Baker!"  says  Mrs.  Bon- 
nington. 


362  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

"Oh,  my  poor  dear  ISlis.  Bonnington!"  says  Lady 
Baker. 

"  Frederick,  listen  to  your  mother,"  implores  Mrs. 
Bonnington. 

"  To  your  mothers,"  sobs  Lady  Baker. 

And  they  both  go  do^vn  on  their  knees,  and  I  heard  a 
boohoo  of  a  guffaw  behind  the  green-baized  servants' 
door,  where  I  have  no  doubt  Mons.  Bedford  was  posted. 

"Ah,  Batchelor!  dear  Batchelor,  speak  to  him!"  cries 
good  JSIrs.  Bonny.  "We  are  praying  this  child,  Batch- 
elor— this  child  whom  you  used  to  know  at  college,  and 
when  he  was  a  good,  gentle,  obedient  boj^  You  have 
influence  with  my  poor  Frederick.  Exert  it  for  his 
heart-broken  mother's  sake ;  and  you  shall  have  m)^  bub- 
ble-uble-essings,  you  shall." 

"  My  dear  good  lady,"  I  exclaim — not  liking  to  see 
the  kind  soul  in  grief. 

"  Send  for  Doctor  Straightwaist !  Order  him  to  pause 
in  his  madness,"  cries  Baker;  "or  it  is  I,  Cecilia's  mo- 
ther, the  mother  of  that  murdered  angel,  that  shall  go 
mad." 

"Angel?  Allons!"  I  say.  "Since  his  widowhood, 
you  have  never  given  the  poor  fellow  any  peace.  You 
have  been  for  ever  quarrelling  with  him.  You  took  pos- 
session of  his  house;  bullied  his  servants;  spoiled  his 
children — you  did.  Lady  Baker." 

"Sir,"  cries  her  ladyship,  " you  are  a  low,  presuming, 
vulgar  man!    Clarence,  beat  this  rude  man! " 

"  Nay,"  I  say,  "  there  must  be  no  more  quarrelling  to- 
day. And  I  am  sure  Captain  Baker  will  not  molest  me. 
Miss  Prior,  I  am  delighted  that  my  old  friend  should 
have  found  a  woman  of  good  sense,  good  conduct,  good 
temper — a  woman  who  has  had  many  trials,  and  borne 


Level's  Mothers 


CECILIA'S  SUCCESSOR  363 

them  with  very  great  patience— to  take  charge  of  him, 
and  make  him  happy.  I  congratulate  you  both.  Miss 
Prior  has  borne  poverty  so  well  that  I  am  certain  she 
will  bear  good  fortune,  for  it  is  good  fortune  to  become 
the  wife  of  such  a  loyal,  honest,  kindly  gentleman  as 
Frederick  Lovel." 

After  such  a  speech  as  that,  I  think  I  ma}^  sa}^  liheravi 
animam.  Not  one  word  of  complaint,  you  see,  not  a  hint 
about  "  Edward,"  not  a  single  sarcasm,  though  I  might 
have  launched  some  terrific  shots  out  of  my  quiver,  and 
have  made  Lovel  and  his  bride-elect  WTithe  before  me. 
But  what  is  the  need  of  spoiling  sport?  Shall  I  growl 
out  of  my  sulky  manger,  because  my  comrade  gets  the 
meat?  Eat  it,  happy  dog!  and  be  thankful.  Would 
not  that  bone  have  choked  me  if  I  had  tried  it?  Besides, 
I  am  accustomed  to  disappointment.  Other  fellows  get 
the  prizes  which  I  try  for.  I  am  used  to  run  second  in 
the  dreary  race  of  love.  Second  ?  Psha !  Third,  Fourth. 
Que  sgais-je?  There  was  the  Bombay  captain  in  Bess's 
early  days.  There  was  Edward.  Here  is  Frederick. 
Go  to,  Charles  Batchelor;  repine  not  at  fortune:  but 
be  content  to  be  Batchelor  still.  My  sister  has  children. 
I  will  be  an  uncle,  a  parent  to  them.  Isn't  Edward  of 
the  scarlet  whiskers  distanced?  Has  not  poor  Dick  Bed- 
ford lost  the  race— poor  Dick,  who  never  had  a  chance, 
and  is  the  best  of  us  all?  Besides,  w-hat  fun  it  is  to  see 
Lady  Baker  deposed:  think  of  ]\Irs.  Prior  coming  in 
and  reigning  over  her!  The  purple-faced  old  fury  of  a 
Baker,  never  will  she  bully,  and  rage,  and  trample  more. 
She  must  pack  up  her  traps  and  be  oiF.  I  know  she 
must.  I  can  congratulate  Lovel  sincerely,  and  that's 
the  fact. 

And  here  at  this  very  moment,  and  as  if  to  add  to  the 


364  LOVEL    THE    WIDOWER 

comicality  of  the  scene,  who  should  appear  but  mother- 
in-law  No.  2,  INIrs.  Prior,  with  her  Bluecoat  boy,  and  two 
or  three  of  her  children,  who  had  been  invited,  or  had  in- 
vited themselves,  to  drink  tea  with  Lovel's  young  ones, 
as  their  custom  was  whenever  they  could  procure  an  in- 
vitation. Master  Prior  had  a  fine  "  copy  "  under  his  arm, 
which  he  came  to  show  to  his  patron  Lovel.  His  mamma, 
entirely  ignorant  of  what  had  happened,  came  fawning 
in  with  her  old  poke-bonnet,  her  old  pocket,  that  vast 
depository  of  all  sorts  of  stores,  her  old  umbrella,  and 
her  usual  dreary  smirk.  She  made  her  obeisance  to  the 
matrons, — she  led  up  her  Bluecoat  boy  to  Mr.  Lovel,  in 
whose  office  she  hoped  to  find  a  clerk's  place  for  her  lad, 
on  whose  very  coat  and  waistcoat  she  had  designs  whilst 
they  were  j^et  on  his  back:  and  she  straightway  began 
business  with  the  dowagers — 

"My  lady,  I  hope  your  ladyship  is  quite  well?"  (a 
curtsey.)  "Dear,  kind  Mrs.  Bonnington!  I  came  to 
pay  my  duty  to  you,  mum.  This  is  Louisa,  my  lady,  the 
great  girl  for  whom  your  ladyship  so  kindly  promised 
the  gown.  And  this  is  my  little  girl,  ]Mrs.  Bonnington, 
mum,  please ;  and  this  is  my  big  Blue.  Go  and  speak  to 
dear,  kind  ]Mr.  Lovel,  Gus,  our  dear  good  friend  and 
protector, — the  son  and  son-in-law  of  these  dear  ladies. 
Look,  sir,  he  has  brought  his  copy  to  show  you ;  and  it's 
creditable  to  a  boy  of  his  age,  isn't  it,  Mr.  Batchelor? 
You  can  say,  who  know  so  well  what  writing  is,  and 
my  kind  services  to  you,  sir— and — Elizabeth,  Lizzy,  my 
dear!  w^here's  your  spectacles,  you — you — " 

Here  she  stopped,  and  looking  alarmed  at  the  group, 
at  the  boxes,  at  the  blushing  Lovel,  at  the  pale  counte- 
nance of  the  governess,  "  Gracious  goodness!  "  she  said, 
"  what  has  happened?    Tell  me,  Lizz5%  what  is  it?  " 


CECILIA'S  SUCCESSOR  365 

"  Is  this  collusion,  pray? "  says  ruffled  Mrs.  Bonning- 
ton. 

"  Collusion,  dear  Mrs.  Bonnington? " 

"  Or  insolence? "  bawls  out  my  Lady  Baker. 

"  Insolence,  your  ladyship?  What— what  is  it?  What 
are  these  boxes — Lizzy's  boxes  ?  All ! "  the  mother  broke 
out  with  a  scream,  "you've  not  sent  the  poor  girl  away? 
Oh!  my  poor  child — my  poor  children!" 

"  The  Prince's  Theatre  has  come  out,  ^Irs.  Prior," 
here  said  I. 

The  mother  clasps  her  meagre  hands.  "  It  wasn't  the 
darling's  fault.  It  was  to  help  her  poor  father  in  pov- 
erty. It  was  I  who  forced  her  to  it.  Oh,  ladies!  ladies! 
— don't  take  the  bread  out  of  the  mouth  of  these  poor 
orphans!" — and  genuine  tears  rained  down  her  yellow 
cheeks. 

"  Enough  of  this,"  says  Mr.  Lovel,  haughtily.  "  Mrs. 
Prior,  your  daughter  is  not  going  away.  Elizabeth  has 
promised  to  stay  with  me,  and  never  to  leave  me — as 
governess  no  longer,  but  as — "  and  here  he  takes  Miss 
Prior's  hand. 

"  His  wife!  Is  this— is  this  true,  Lizzy? "  gasped  the 
mother. 

"  Yes,  mamma,"  meekly  said  Miss  Elizabeth  Prior. 

At  this  the  old  w^oman  flung  down  her  umbrella,  and 
uttering  a  fine  scream,  folds  Elizabeth  in  her  arms,  and 
then  runs  up  to  Lovel:  "My  son!  my  son!"  says  she 
(Level's  face  was  not  bad,  I  promise  you,  at  this  saluta- 
tion and  salute).  "Come  here,  children!— come,  Au- 
gustus, Fanny,  Louisa,  kiss  your  dear  brother,  children ! 
And  where  are  yours,  Lizzy?  Where  are  Pop  and  Cissy? 
Go  and  look  for  your  little  nephew  and  niece,  dears :  Pop 
and  Cissy  in  the  schoolroom,  or  in  the  garden,  dears. 


366  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

They  will  be  your  nephew  and  niece  now.  Go  and  fetch 
them,  I  say." 

As  the  young  Priors  filed  off,  Mrs.  Prior  turned  to 
the  two  other  matrons,  and  spoke  to  them  with  much 
dignity:  "Most  hot  weather,  your  ladyship,  I'm  sure! 
^Ir.  Bonnington  must  find  it  very  hot  for  preaching, 
Mrs.  Bonnington !  Lor' !  there's  that  little  wretch  beat- 
ing my  Johnny  on  the  stairs.  Have  done.  Pop,  sir! 
How  ever  shall  we  make  those  children  agree,  Eliza- 
beth?" 

Quick,  come  to  me,  some  skilful  delineator  of  the  Brit- 
ish dowager,  and  draw  me  the  countenances  of  Lady 
Baker  and  Mrs.  Bonnington ! 

"I  call  this  a  jolly  game,  don't  you,  Batchelor,  old 
boy?"  remarks  the  Captain  to  me.  "Lady  Baker,  my 
dear,  I  guess  your  ladyship's  nose  is  out  of  joint." 

"O  CeciHa— Cecilia!  don't  you  shudder  in  your 
grave?"  cries  Lady  B.  "Call  my  people,  Clarence- 
call  Bulkeley — call  my  maid!  Let  me  go,  I  say,  from 
this  house  of  horror!"  and  the  old  lady  dashed  into  the 
drawing-room,  where  she  uttered  I  know  not  what  in- 
coherent shrieks  and  appeals  before  that  calm,  glazed, 
simpering  portrait  of  the  departed  Cecilia. 

Now  this  is  a  truth,  for  which  I  call  Lovel,  his  lady, 
Mrs.  Bonnington,  and  Captain  Clarence  Baker,  as  wit- 
nesses. Well,  then,  whilst  Lady  B.  was  adjuring  the  por- 
trait, it  is  a  fact  that  a  string  of  Cecilia's  harp— which 
has  always  been  standing  in  the  corner  of  the  room  under 
its  shroud  of  Cordovan  leather— a  string,  I  say,  of  Ce- 
cilia's harp  cracked,  and  went  off  with  a  loud  hong,  which 
struck  terror  into  all  beholders.  Lady  Baker's  agitation 
at  the  incident  was  awful;  I  do  not  like  to  describe  it— 
not  having  any  wish  to  say  anything  tragic  in  this  nar- 


CECILIA'S   SUCCESSOR  367 

rative— though  that  I  can  write  tragedy,  plays  of  mine 
(of  which  envious  managers  never  could  be  got  to  see  the 
merit)  I  think  will  prove,  when  they  appear  in  my  post- 
humous works. 

Baker  has  always  averred  that  at  the  moment  when 
the  harp-string  broke,  her  heart  broke  too.  But  as  she 
lived  for  many  years,  and  may  be  alive  now  for  what  I 
know;  and  as  she  borrowed  money  repeatedly  from 
Lovel— he  must  be  acquitted  of  the  charge  which  she 
constantly  brings  against  him  of  hastening  her  own 
death,  and  murdering  his  first  wife  Ceciha.  "  The  harp 
that  once  in  Tara's  Halls  "  used  to  make  such  a  piteous 
feeble  thrumming,  has  been  carted  off  I  know  not  whi- 
ther ;  and  Cecilia's  portrait,  though  it  has  been  removed 
from  the  post  of  honour  (where,  you  conceive,  under 
present  circumstances  it  would  hardly  be  apropos) ,  oc- 
cupies a  very  reputable  position  in  the  pink  room  up- 
stairs, which  that  poor  young  Clarence  inhabited  dur- 
ing my  visit  to  Shrublands. 

All  the  house  has  been  altered.  There's  a  fine  organ 
in  the  hall,  on  which  Elizabeth  performs  sacred  music 
very  finely.  As  for  my  old  room,  I  will  trouble  j^ou  to 
smoke  there  under  the  present  government.  It  is  a  li- 
brary now,  with  many  fine  and  authentic  pictures  of  the 
Lovel  family  hanging  up  in  it,  the  English  branch  of 
the  house  with  the  wolf  crest,  and  Gare  a  la  louve  for  the 
motto,  and  a  grand  posthumous  portrait  of  a  Portuguese 
officer  (Gandish),  Elizabeth's  late  father. 

As  for  dear  old  Mrs.  Bonnington,  she,  you  may  be 
sure,  would  be  easily  reconciled  to  any  live  mortal  who 
was  kind  to  her,  and  any  plan  which  should  make  her  son 
happy;  and  Elizabeth  has  quite  won  her  over.  Mrs. 
Prior,  on  the  deposition  of  the  other  dowagers,  no  doubt 


368  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

expected  to  reign  at  Shrublands,  but  in  this  object  I  am 
not  very  sorry  to  say  was  disappointed.  Indeed,  I  was 
not  a  little  amused,  upon  the  very  first  day  of  her  in- 
tended reign— that  eventful  one  of  which  we  have  been 
describing  the  incidents— to  see  how  calmly  and  grace- 
fully Bessy  pulled  the  throne  from  under  her,  on  which  ' 
the  old  lady  was  clambering. 

Mrs.  P.  knew  the  house  very  well,  and  everything  which 
it  contained;  and  when  Lady  Baker  drove  off  with  her 
son  and  her  suite  of  domestics.  Prior  dashed  through  the 
vacant  apartments  gleaning  what  had  been  left  in  the 
flurry  of  departure— a  scarlet  feather  out  of  the  dowa- 
ger's room,  a  shirt-stud  and  a  bottle  of  hair-oil,  the  Cap- 
tain's property.  "And  now  they  are  gone,  and  as  you 
can't  be  alone  with  him,  my  dear,  I  must  be  with  you," 
says  she,  coming  down  to  her  daughter. 

"  Of  course,  mamma,  I  must  be  with  you,"  says  obe- 
dient Elizabeth. 

"And  there  is  the  pink  room,  and  the  blue  room,  and 
the  yellow  room  for  the  boys — and  the  chintz  boudoir 
for  me — I  can  put  them  all  away,  oh,  so  comfortably! " 

"  I  can  come  and  share  Louisa's  room,  mamma,"  says 
Bessy.  "  It  will  not  be  proper  for  me  to  stay  here  at  all 
— until  afterwards,  you  know.  Or  I  can  go  to  my  uncle 
at  St.  Boniface.  Don't  you  think  that  will  be  best,  eh, 
Frederick?" 

"  Whatever  you  wish,  my  dear  Lizzy! "  says  Lovel. 

"And  I  dare  say  there  will  be  some  little  alterations 
made  in  the  house.  You  talked,  you  know,  of  painting, 
Mr.  Lovel:  and  the  children  can  go  to  their  grand- 
mamma Bonnington.  And  on  our  return  when  the  al- 
terations are  made  we  shall  always  be  delighted  to  see 


CECILIA'S  SUCCESSOR  369 

ijou,  Mr.  Batchelor— our  kindest  old  friend.     Shall  we 
not,  Frederick?" 

"Always,  always,"  said  Frederick. 

"  Come,  children,  come  to  your  teas,"  calls  out  Mrs. 
P.,  in  a  resolute  voice. 

"  Dear  Pop,  I'm  not  going  away— that  is,  only  for  a 
few  days,  dear,"  says  Bessy,  kissing  the  boy;  "  and  you 
will  love  me,  won't  you?  " 

"All  right,"  says  the  boy.  But  Cissy  said,  when  the 
same  appeal  was  made  to  her:  "I  shall  love  my  dear 
mamma! "  and  makes  her  new  mother-in-law  a  very  po- 
lite curtsey. 

"  I  think  you  had  better  put  off  those  men  you  expect 
to  dinner  to-morrow,  Fred,"  I  say  to  Lovel. 

"  I  think  I  had,  Batch,"  says  the  gentleman. 

"  Or  you  can  dine  with  them  at  the  club,  you  know? " 
remarks  Elizabeth. 

"  Yes,  Bessy." 

"And  when  the  children  have  had  their  tea  I  will  go 
with  mamma.  My  boxes  are  ready,  you  know,"  says  arch 
Bessy. 

"And  you  will  stay  and  dine  with  Mr.  Lovel,  won't 
you,  Mr.  Batchelor?"  asks  the  lady. 

It  was  the  dreariest  dinner  I  ever  had  in  my  life.  No 
undertaker  could  be  more  gloomy  than  Bedford,  as  he 
served  us.  We  tried  to  talk  politics  and  literature.  We 
drank  too  much,  purposely.  Nothing  would  do. 
"  Hang  me,  if  I  can  stand  this,  Lovel,"  I  said,  as  we  sat 
mum  over  our  third  bottle.  "  I  will  go  back  and  sleep  at 
my  chambers.  I  was  not  a  little  soft  upon  her  myself, 
that's  the  truth.  Here's  her  health,  and  happiness  to 
both  of  you,  with  all  my  heart."    And  we  drained  a  great 


370  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

bumper  apiece,  and  I  left  him.  He  was  very  happy  I 
should  go. 

Bedford  stood  at  the  gate,  as  the  little  pony-carriage 
came  for  me  in  the  dusk.  "  God  bless  you,  sir,"  says  he. 
"  I  can't  stand  it;  I  shall  go  too."  And  he  rubbed  his 
hands  over  his  eyes. 

He  married  Mary  Pinhorn,  and  they  have  emigrated 
to  Melbourne;  whence  he  sent  me,  three  years  ago,  an 
affectionate  letter,  and  a  smart  gold  pin  from  the  dig- 
gings. 

A  month  afterwards,  a  cab  might  have  been  seen  driv- 
ing from  the  Temple  to  Hanover  Square :  and  a  month 
and  a  day  after  that  drive,  an  advertisement  might  have 
been  read  in  the  Post  and  Times:  "Married,  on  Thurs- 
day, 10th,  at  St.  George's,  Hanover  Square,  b}^  the  Rev- 
erend the  Master  of  St.  Boniface  College,  Oxbridge, 
uncle  of  the  bride,  Frederick  Lovel,  Esquire,  of  Shrub- 
lands,  Roehampton,  to  Elizabeth,  eldest  daughter  of  the 
late  Captain  Montagu  Prior,  K.S.F." 

We  may  hear  of  Lovei-  Married  some  other  day,  but 
here  is  an  end  of  Lovel  the  Widower.  Valete  et  plau- 
dite,  you  good  people,  who  have  witnessed  the  little  com- 
edy. Down  with  the  curtain;  cover  up  the  boxes;  pop 
out  the  gas-lights.  Ho!  cab.  Take  us  home,  and  let  us 
have  some  tea,  and  go  to  bed.  Good-night,  my  little 
players.  We  have  been  merry  together,  and  we  part 
with  soft  hearts  and  somewhat  rueful  countenances, 
don't  we? 


THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 


DRAMATIS    PERSONJE 

Mr.  Horace  Milliken,  a  Widower,  a  wealthy  City  Merchant. 

George  Milliken,  a  Child,  his  Son. 

Captain  Touchit,  his  Friend. 

Clarence  Kicklebury,  brother  to  Milliken*s  late  Wife. 

John  Howell,  M.^s  Butler  and  confidential  Servant. 

Charles  Page,  Foot-boy. 

BuLKELEY,  Lady  Kicklebury^s  Servant. 

Mr.  BONNINGTON. 

Coachman,  Cabman;  a  Bluecoat  Boy,  another  Boy  {Mrs.  Prior^s 
Sons ) . 

Lady  Kicklebury,  Mother-in-law  to  Milliken. 
Mrs.  BoNNiNGTON,  MHUken^s  Mother  {married  again). 
Mrs.  Prior. 

Miss  Prior,  her  Daughter,  Governess  to  Milliken^s  Children. 
Arabella  Milliken,  a  Child. 
Mary  Barlow,  School-room  Maid. 

A  grown-up  Girl  and  Child  of  Mrs.  Prior's,  Lady  K.'s  Maid, 
Cook. 


THE 

WOLVES  AND  THE    LAMB 

ACT  I. 

Scene.— Milliken's  villa  at  Richmond;  two  drawing- 
rooms  opening  into  one  another.  The  late  Mrs. 
Milliken's  portrait  over  the  mantelpiece;  book- 
cases, writing-tables,  piano,  newspapers,  a  hand- 
somely furnished  saloon.  The  back-room  opens, 
with  very  large  windows,  on  the  lawn  and  pleasure- 
ground;  gate,  and  wall — over  which  the  heads  of  a 
cab  and  a  carriage  are  seen,  as  persons  arrive. 
Fruit,  and  a  ladder  on  the  walls.  A  door  to  the 
dining-room,  another  to  the  sleeping-apartments, 
S^c. 

John.— Everybody  out;  governor  in  the  city;  gover- 
ness (heigh-ho!)  walking  in  the  Park  with  the  children; 
ladyship  gone  out  in  the  carriage.  Let's  sit  down  and 
have  a  look  at  the  papers.  Buttons !  fetch  the  Morning 
Post  out  of  Lady  Kicklebury's  room.  Where's  the 
Daily  News,  sir? 

Page.— Think  it's  in  ISIilliken's  room. 

John. — Milliken!  you  scoundrel!  What  do  you  mean 
by  Milliken?  Speak  of  your  employer  as  your  governor 
if  you  like;  but  not  as  simple  Milliken.  Confound  your 
impudence !  you'll  be  calling  me  Howell  next. 

373 


374      THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 

Page.— Well!  I  didn't  know.    You  call  him  Milliken. 

John. — Because  I  know  him,  because  I'm  intimate 
with  him,  because  there's  not  a  secret  he  has  but  I  may 
have  it  for  the  asking;  because  the  letters  addressed  to 
Horace  Milliken,  Esq.,  might  as  well  be  addressed  John 
Howell,  Esq.,  for  I  read  'em,  I  put  'em  away  and  docket 
'em,  and  remember  'em.  I  know  his  affairs  better  than 
he  does :  his  income  to  a  shilling,  pay  his  tradesmen,  wear 
his  coats  if  I  like.  I  may  call  Mr.  Milliken  what  I 
please;  but  not  you„  you  little  scamp  of  a  clod-hopping 
ploughboy.  Know  your  station  and  do  your  business, 
or  you  don't  wear  them  buttons  long,  I  promise  you. 
[Exit  Page.] 

Let  me  go  on  with  the  paper  [readsl.  How  brilliant 
this  writing  is!  Tiines,  Chronicle,  Daily  News,  they're 
all  good,  blest  if  they  ain't.  How  much  better  the  nine 
leaders  in  them  three  daily  papers  is,  than  nine  speeches 
in  the  House  of  Commons !  Take  a  very  best  speech  in 
the  'Ouse  now,  and  compare  it  with  an  article  in  The 
Times !  I  say,  the  newspaper  has  the  best  of  it  for  phi- 
losophy, for  wit,  novelty,  good  sense  too.  And  the  party 
that  writes  the  leading  article  is  nobody,  and  the  chap 
that  speaks  in  the  House  of  Commons  is  a  hero.  Lord, 
Lord,  how  the  world  is  'umbugged!  Pop'lar  represen- 
tation! what  is  pop'lar  representation?  Dammy,  it's  a 
farce.  Hallo!  this  article  is  stole!  I  remember  a  pas- 
sage in  Montesquieu  uncommonly  like  it.  [Goes  and 
gets  the  hook.  As  he  is  standing  upon  sofa  to  get  it,  and 
sitting  down  to  read -it.  Miss  Prior  and  the  Children 
have  come  in  at  the  garden.  Children  pass  across  stage. 
Miss  Prior  enters  by  open  window,  bringing  flowers 
into  the  room.l 

John.— It  is  like  it.     [He  slaps  the  hook,  and  seeing 


THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB      375 

Miss  Prior  who  enters,  then  jumps  up  from  sofa,  say- 
ing very  respectfully,'] 

John.— I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss. 

Miss  P.  [sarcastically'].— T)o  I  disturb  you,  Howell? 

John. — Disturb!  I  have  no  right  to  say — a  servant 
has  no  right  to  be  disturbed,  but  I  hope  I  may  be  par- 
doned for  venturing  to  look  at  a  volume  in  the  libery. 
Miss,  just  in  reference  to  a  newspaper  harticle— that's 
all.  Miss. 

Miss  P. — You  are  very  fortunate  in  finding  anything 
to  interest  you  in  the  paper,  I'm  sure. 

John. — Perhaps,  Miss,  you  are  not  accustomed  to 
political  discussion,  and  ignorant  of — ah — I  beg  your 
pardon :  a  servant,  I  know,  has  no  right  to  speak.  [Eivit 
into  dining-room,  making  a  low  how.] 

Miss  Prior. — The  coolness  of  some  people  is  really 
quite  extraordinary!  the  airs  they  give  themselves,  the 
way  in  which  they  answer  one,  the  books  they  read! 
Montesquieu:  "  Esprit  des  Lois!"  [takes  book  up  which 
J.  has  left  on  sofa.]  I  believe  the  man  has  actually 
taken  this  from  the  shelf.  I  am  sure  Mr.  Milliken,  or 
her  ladyship,  never  would.  The  other  day  "  Helvetius  " 
was  found  in  Mr.  Howell's  pantry,  forsooth!  It  is 
wonderful  how  he  picked  up  French  whilst  we  were 
abroad.  "Esprit  des  Lois!"  what  is  it?  it  must  be 
dreadfully  stupid.  And  as  for  reading  "  Helvetius  '* 
(who,  I  suppose,  was  a  Roman  general),  I  really  can't 
understand  how — Dear,  dear!  what  airs  these  persons 
give  themselves!  What  will  come  next?  A  footman — 
I  beg  Mr.  Howell's  pardon — a  butler  and  confidential 
valet  lolls  on  the  drawing-room  sofa,  and  reads  Mon- 
tesquieu! Impudence!  And  add  to  this,  he  follows  me 
for  the  last  two  or  three  months  with  eyes  that  are  quite 


376   THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 

horrid.  What  can  the  creature  mean?  But  I  forgot— 
I  am  only  a  governess.  A  governess  is  not  a  lady— a 
governess  is  but  a  servant— a  governess  is  to  work  and 
walk  all  day  with  the  children,  dine  in  the  school-room, 
and  come  to  the  drawing-room  to  play  the  man  of  the 
house  to  sleep.  A  governess  is  a  domestic,  only  her 
place  is  not  the  servants'  hall,  and  she  is  paid  not  quite 
so  well  as  the  butler  who  serves  her  her  glass  of  wine. 
Odious!  George!  Arabella!  there  are  those  little 
wretches  quarrelling  again !  [Ecvit.  Children  are  heard 
calling  out,  and  seen  quarrelling  in  garden.^ 

John  [re-enteringl.  —  See  where  she  moves!  grace  is 
in  all  her  steps.  'Eaven  in  her  high — no— a-heaven  in  her 
heye,  in  every  gesture  dignity  and  love— ah,  I  wish  I 
could  say  it !  I  wish  you  may  procure  it,  poor  fool !  She 
passes  by  me— she  tr-r-amples  on  me.  Here's  the  chair 
she  sets  in  [kisses  if].  Here's  the  piano  she  plays  on. 
Pretty  keys,  them  fingers  outhivories  you!  When  she 
plays  on  it,  I  stand  and  listen  at  the  drawing-room  door, 
and  my  heart  thr-obs  in  time !  Fool,  fool,  fool !  why  did 
you  look  on  her,  John  Howell!  why  did  you  beat  for 
her,  busy  heart!  You  were  tranquil  till  you  knew  her! 
I  thought  I  could  have  been  a-happy  with  Mary  till 
then.  That  girl's  affection  soothed  me.  Her  conver- 
sation didn't  amuse  me  much,  her  ideers  ain't  exactly  ele- 
vated, but  they  are  just  and  proper.  Her  attentions 
pleased  me.  She  ever  kep'  the  best  cup  of  tea  for  me. 
She  crisped  my  buttered  toast,  or  mixed  my  quiet  tum- 
bler for  me,  as  I  sat  of  hevenings  and  read  my  news- 
paper in  the  kitching.  She  respected  the  sanctaty  of  my 
pantry.  When  I  was  a-studying  there,  she  never  inter- 
rupted me.  She  darned  my  stockings  for  me,  she 
starched  and  folded  my  chokers,  and  she  sowed  on  the 


THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB      377 

habsent  buttons  of  which  time  and  chance  had  bereft  my 
hnning.  She  has  a  good  heart,  JNIary  has.  I  know  she'd 
get  up  and  black  the  boots  for  me  of  the  coldest  winter 
mornings.  She  did  when  w^e  was  in  humbler  life,  she 
did. 

Enter  Mary. 

You  have  a  good  heart,  Mary! 

Mary.— Have  I,  dear  John?  [sadly. 1 

John. — Yes,  child — yes.  I  think  a  better  never  beat 
in  woman's  bosom.  You're  good  to  everybody — good 
to  your  parents  whom  you  send  half  your  wages  to: 
good  to  your  employers  whom  you  never  robbed  of  a 
halfpenny. 

Mary  [whijnpering].— Yes,  I  did,  John.  I  took  the 
jelly  when  you  were  in  bed  with  the  influenza;  and 
brought  you  the  pork-wine  negus. 

John.— Port,  not  pork,  child.  Pork  is  the  hanimal 
which  Jews  ab'or.    Port  is  from  Oporto  in  Portugal. 

Mary  [still  crying^. — Yes,  John;  you  know  every- 
thing a'most,  John. 

John.— And  you,  poor  child,  but  little!  It's  not 
heart  you  want,  you  little  trump,  it's  education,  Mary: 
it's  information :  it's  head,  head,  head !  You  can't  learn. 
You  never  can  learn.  Your  ideers  ain't  no  good.  You 
never  can  hinterchange  'em  with  mine.  Conversation 
between  us  is  impossible.  It's  not  your  fault.  Some 
people  are  born  clever;  some  are  born  tall,  I  ain't 
tall. 

Mary. — Ho!  you're  big  enough  for  me,  John.  [Of- 
fers to  take  his  hand.'] 

John.— Let  go  my  'and— my  a-hand,  Mary!  I  say, 
some  people  are  born  with  brains,  and  some  with  big 


378      THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 

figures.  Look  at  that  great  ass,  Bulkeley,  Lady  K.'s 
man— the  besotted,  stupid  beast!  He's  as  big  as  a  life- 
guardsman,  but  he  ain't  no  more  education  nor  ideers 
than  the  ox  he  feeds  on. 

Mary. — Law,  John,  whathever  do  you  mean? 

John. — Hm!  j^ou  know  not,  httle  one!  you  never  can 
know.  Have  you  ever  felt  the  pangs  of  imprisoned 
genius?  have  you  ever  felt  what  'tis  to  be  a  slave? 

Mary.— Not  in  a  free  country,  I  should  hope,  John 
Howell— no  such  a  thing.  A  place  is  a  place,  and  I 
know  mine,  and  am  content  with  the  spear  of  life  in 
which  it  pleases  heaven  to  place  me,  John:  and  I  wish 
you  were,  and  remembered  what  we  learned  from  our 
parson  when  we  went  to  school  together  in  dear  old 
Pigeoncot,  John — when  you  used  to  help  little  Mary 
with  her  lessons,  John,  and  fought  Bob  Brown,  the  big 
butcher's  boy,  because  he  was  rude  to  me,  John,  and  he 
gave  you  that  black  hi. 

John.— Say  eye,  Mary,  not  heye  \_gently~\. 

Mary.— Eye;  and  I  thought  you  never  looked  better 
in  all  your  life  than  you  did  then :  and  yve  both  took  ser- 
vice at  Squire  Milliken's — me  as  dairy-girl,  and  you  as 
knife-boy;  and  good  masters  have  they  been  to  us  from 
our  youth  hup:  both  old  Squire  INIilliken  and  Mr. 
Charles  as  is  master  now,  and  poor  Mrs.  as  is  dead, 
though  she  had  her  tantrums— and  I  thought  we  should 
save  up  and  take  the  "Milliken  Arms"— and  now  we 
have  saved  up— and  now,  now,  now— oh,  you  are  a  stone, 
a  stone,  a  stone!  and  I  wish  you  were  hung  round  my 
neck,  and  I  were  put  down  the  well!  Tliere's  the  hup- 
stairs  bell.  [She  starts,  changing  her  maimer  as  she 
hears  the  hell,  and  eccitJ] 

John  {looking  after  //Y?r].— It's  all  true.     Gospel- 


THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB      879 

true.  We  were  children  in  the  same  village — sat  on  the 
same  form  at  school.  And  it  was  for  her  sake  that  Bob 
Brown  the  butcher's  boy  whopped  me.  A  black  eye !  I'm 
not  handsome.  But  if  I  were  ugly,  ugly  as  the  Saracen's 
'Ead,  ugly  as  that  beast  Bulkele}^  I  know  it  would  be 
all  the  same  to  Mary.  She  has  never  forgot  the  boy  she 
loved,  that  brought  birds'-nests  for  her,  and  spent  his 
halfpenny  on  cherries,  and  bought  a  fairing  with  his 
first  half-crown — a  brooch  it  was,  I  remember,  of  two 
billing  doves  a-hopping  on  one  twig,  and  brought  it 
home  for  little  yellow-haired,  blue-eyed,  red-cheeked 
Mary.  Lord,  Lord!  I  don't  like  to  think  how  I've  kissed 
'em,  the  pretty  cheeks!  they've  got  quite  pale  now  with 
crying — and  she  has  never  once  reproached  me,  not  once, 
the  trump,  the  little  tr-rump ! 

Is  it  my  fault  [^stamping']  that  Fate  has  separated 
us?  Why  did  my  young  master  take  me  up  to  Oxford, 
and  give  me  the  run  of  his  libery  and  the  society  of  the 
best  scouts  in  the  University?  Why  did  he  take  me 
abroad?  Why  have  I  been  to  Italy,  France,  Jummany 
with  him — their  manners  noted  and  their  realms  sur- 
veyed, by  jingo!  I've  improved  myself,  and  ]\Iary  has 
remained  as  you  was.  I  try  a  conversation,  and  she  can't 
respond.  She's  never  got  a  word  of  poetry  beyond 
Watt's  Ims,  and  if  I  talk  of  Byron  or  Moore  to  her, 
I'm  blest  if  she  knows  anything  more  about  'em  than 
the  cook,  who  is  as  hignorant  as  a  pig,  or  that  beast 
Bulkeley,  Lady  Kick's  footman.  Above  all,  why,  why 
did  I  see  the  woman  upon  whom  my  wretched  heart 
is  fixed  for  ever,  and  who  carries  away  my  soul  with 
her— prostrate,  I  say,  prostrate,  through  the  mud  at 
the  skirts  of  her  gownd!  Enslaver!  why  did  I  ever  come 
near  you?     O  enchantress  Kelipso!  how  you  have  got 


380      THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 

hold  of  me!  It  was  Fate,  Fate,  Fate.  When  Mrs. 
Milhken  fell  ill  of  scarlet  fever  at  Naples,  Milliken  was 
away  at  Petersborough,  Rooshia,  looking  after  his  prop- 
erty. Her  foring  woman  fled.  Me  and  the  governess 
remained  and  nursed  her  and  the  children.  We  nursed 
the  little  ones  out  of  the  fever.  We  buried  their  mother. 
We  brought  the  children  home  over  Halp  and  Hap- 
penine.  I  nursed  'em  all  three.  I  tended  'em  all  three, 
the  orphans,  and  the  lovely  gu-gu-governess.  At  Rome, 
where  she  took  ill,  I  waited  on  her;  as  we  went  to  Flor- 
ence, had  we  been  attacked  by  twenty  thousand  brig- 
ands, this  little  arm  had  courage  for  them  all!  And  if 
I  loved  thee,  Julia,  was  I  wrong?  and  if  I  basked  in 
thy  beauty  day  and  night,  Julia,  am  I  not  a  man?  and 
if,  before  this  Peri,  this  enchantress,  this  gazelle,  I  for- 
got poor  little  Mary  Barlow,  how  could  I  help  it?  I 
say,  how  the  doose  could  I  help  it? 


Enter  Lady  Kicklebury,  Bulkeley  following  with 
parcels  mid  a  spaniel. 

Lady  K.— Are  the  children  and  the  governess  come 
home  ? 

John.— Yes,  my  lady  [in  a  perfectly  altered  tone']. 

LiVDY  K.— Bulkeley,  take  those  parcels  to  my  sitting- 
room. 

John.  — Get  up,  old  stoopid.  Push  along,  old  daddy- 
longlegs [aside  to  Bulkeley]. 

Lady  K.— Does  any  one  dine  here  to-day,  Howell? 

John.— Captain  Touchit,  my  lady. 

Lady  K. — He's  always  dining  here. 

John. — My  master's  oldest  friend. 

Lady  K.— Don't  tell  me.    He  comes  from  his  club. 


THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB      381 

He  smells  of  smoke;  he  is  a  low,  vulgar  person.  Send 
Pinhorn  up  to  me  when  you  go  downstairs.  \_Exit  Lady 
K.] 

John.  —  I  know.  Send  Pinhorn  to  me,  means. 
Send  my  bonny  brown  hair,  and  send  my  beautiful  com- 
plexion, and  send  my  figure — and,  O  Lord!  O  Lord! 
what  an  old  tigress  that  is!  What  an  old  Hector! 
How  she  do  twist  Milliken  round  her  thumb !  He's  born 
to  be  bullied  by  women :  and  I  remember  him  henpecked 
^  let's  see,  ever  since — ever  since  the  time  of  that  little 
gloveress  at  Woodstock,  whose  picter  poor  ]Mrs.  IVI. 
made  such  a  noise  about  when  she  found  it  in  the  lum- 
ber-room. Heh!  her  picter  will  be  going  into  the 
lumber-room  some  day.  M.  must  marry  to  get  rid  of 
his  mother-in-law  and  mother  over  him:  no  man  can 
stand  it,  not  M.  himself,  who's  a  Job  of  a  man.  Isn't 
he,  look  at  him!  [As  he  has  been  speaking,  the  bell  has 
rung,  the  Page  has  run  to  the  garden-door,  and  Mil- 
liken  enters  through  the  garden,  laden  with  a  hamper, 
band-box,  and  cricket-bat.^ 

Milliken.— Why  was  the  carriage  not  sent  for  me, 
Howell?  There  was  no  cab  at  the  station,  and  I  have 
had  to  toil  all  the  way  up  the  hill  with  these  confounded 
parcels  of  my  lady's. 

John. — I  suppose  the  shower  took  off  all  the  cabs, 
sir.  When  did  a  man  ever  git  a  cab  in  a  shower?— or  a 
policeman  at  a  pinch— or  a  friend  when  you  wanted 
him— or  anything  at  the  right  time,  sir? 

Milliken.— But,  sir,  why  didn't  the  carriage  come, 
I  say? 

John.  — Foi/^  know. 

Milliken.— How  do  you  mean  I  know?  confound 
your  impudence. 

John.— Lady  Kicklebury  took  it— j^our  mother-in- 


382      THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 

law  took  it— went  out  a-visiting— Ham  Common,  Pe- 
tersham, Twick'nam— doose  knows  where.  She,  and  her 
footman,  and  her  span'l  dog. 

JNIiLLiKEN. — Well,  sir,  suppose  her  ladyship  did  take 
the  carriage?  Hasn't  she  a  perfect  right?  And  if  the 
carriage  was  gone,  I  want  to  know,  John,  why  the  devil 
the  pony-chaise  wasn't  sent  with  the  groom?  Am  I 
to  bring  a  bonnet-box  and  a  hamper  of  fish  in  my  own 
hands,  I  should  like  to  know? 

John.— Heh!   [laughs.^ 

MiLLiKEN.— Why  do  you  grin,  you  Cheshire  cat? 

John.— Your  mother-in-law  had  the  carriage;  and 
your  mother  sent  for  the  pony-chaise.  Your  Pa  wanted 
to  go  and  see  the  Wicar  of  Putney.  Mr.  Bonnington 
don't  like  walking  when  he  can  ride. 

Mtlliken.— And  why  shouldn't  Mr.  Bonnington 
ride,  sir,  as  long  as  there's  a  carriage  in  my  stable?  Mr. 
Bonnington  has  had  the  gout,  sir!  Mr.  Bonnington  is 
a  clergyman,  and  married  to  my  mother.  He  has  every 
title  to  my  respect. 

John.— And  to  j^our  pony-chaise— yes,  sir. 

MiLLiKEN.— And  to  everything  he  likes  in  this  house, 
sir. 

John.— What  a  good  fellow  you  are,  sir!  You'd 
give  your  head  off  your  shoulders,  that  you  would.  Is 
the  fish  for  dinner  to-day?  Band-box  for  my  lady,  I 
suppose,  sir?  [Looks  m]— Turban,  feathers,  bugles, 
marabouts,  spangles— doose  knows  what.  Yes,  it's  for 
her  ladyship,  [To  Page.]  Charles,  take  this  band- 
box to  her  ladyship's  maid.  [To  his  master.]  What 
sauce  would  you  like  Math  the  turbot?  Lobster  sauce 
or  Hollandaise?  Hollandaise  is  best— most  wholesome 
for  you.  Anybody  besides  Captain  Touchit  coming  to 
dinner? 


THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB      383 

MiLLiKEN.— No  one  that  I  know  of. 

John. — Very  good.  Bring  up  a  bottle  of  the  brown 
hock?  Pie  likes  the  brown  hock,  Touchit  does.  \_Eajit 
John.] 

Enter  Children.     They  run  to  Milliken. 

Both.— How  d^ou  do,  Papa!  How  do  you  do. 
Papa! 

Milliken.— Kiss  your  old  father,  Arabella.  Come 
here,  George — What? 

George.— Don't  care  for  kissing— kissing's  for  gals. 
Have  you  brought  me  that  bat  from  London? 

Milliken. — Yes.  Here's  the  bat ;  and  here's  the  ball 
\_takes  one  from  pocket~\ — and — 

George.— Where's  the  wickets,  Papa.  O-o-o— 
where's  the  wickets?   lhowls.~\ 

Milliken.— My  dear,  darling  bojM  I  left  them  at 
the  office.  What  a  silly  papa  I  was  to  forget  them! 
Parkins  forgot  them. 

George.— Then  turn  him  away,  I  say!  Turn  him 
away!    \_He  stamps.~\ 

Milliken. — What!  an  old,  faithful  clerk  and  servant 
of  your  father  and  grandfather  for  thirty  years  past? 
An  old  man,  who  loves  us  all,  and  has  nothing  but  our 
pay  to  live  on? 

Arabella. — Oh,  you  naughty  boy! 

George. — I  ain't  a  naughty  boy. 

Arabella. — You  are  a  naughty  boy. 

George. — He!  he!  he!  he!    ^Grins  at  her.~\ 

Milliken.— Hush,  children!  Here,  Arabella  dar- 
ling, here  is  a  book  for  you.  Look — aren't  they  pretty 
pictures  ? 

Arabella. — Is  it  a  story,  Papa?     I  don't  care  for 


381      THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 

stories  in  general.  I  like  something  instructive  and 
serious.  Grandmamma  Bonnington  and  grandpapa 
say— 

George. — He's  not  j^our  grandpapa. 

Arabella.— He  is  my  grandpapa. 

George.  — Oh,  you  great  story!  Look!  look!  there's 
a  cab.  \_Ru7is  out.  The  head  of  a  Hansom  cab  is  seen 
over  the  garden-gate.  Bell  rings.  Page  comes.  Alter- 
cation between  Cabman  and  Captain  Touchit  appears 
to  go  on,  during  whichl 

]Milliken.  — Come  and  kiss  your  old  father,  Ara- 
bella.   He's  hungry  for  kisses. 

Arabella. — Don't.  I  want  to  go  and  look  at  the 
cab;  and  to  tell  Captain  Touchit  that  he  mustn't  use 
naughty  words.  ^Runs  towards  garden.  Page  is  seen 
carrying  a  carpet-bag.'] 

Enter  Touchit  through  the  open  window  smoking 

a  cigar. 

Touchit.— How  d'ye  do,  Milliken?  How  are  tal- 
lows, hey,  my  noble  merchant?  I  have  brought  my 
bag,  and  intend  to  sleep — 

George.  — I  say,  godpapa— 

ToL^CHiT.— Well,  godson! 

George.— Give  us  a  cigar! 

Touchit.  — Oh,  }^ou  enfant  terrible! 

Milliken  [wheezily'].— Ah— ahem— George  Touch- 
it!  you  wouldn't  mind— a— smoking  that  cigar  in  the 
garden,  would  you?    Ah— ah! 

Touchit. — Hullo!  What's  in  the  wind  now?  You 
used  to  be  a  most  inveterate  smoker,  Horace. 

Milliken.— The  fact  is— my  mother-in-law— Lady 


THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB      385 

Kicklebury — doesn't  like  it,  and  while  she's  with  us, 
you  know — 

ToucHiT.  — Of  course,  of  course  [throws  away  cigarl. 
I  beg  her  ladyship's  pardon.  I  remember  when  you 
were  courting  her  daughter  she  used  not  to  mind  it. 

MiLLiKEN.— Don't— don't  allude  to  those  times. 
[He  looks  up  at  his  wife's  picture.'] 

George. — My  mamma  was  a  Kicklebury.  The 
Kickleburj^s  are  the  oldest  family  in  all  the  world.  IMy 
name  is  George  Kicklebury  Milliken,  of  Pigeoncot, 
Hants;  the  Grove,  Richmond,  Surrey;  and  Portland 
Place,  London,  Esquire — my  name  is. 

ToucHiT. — You  have  forgotten  Billiter  Street,  hemp 
and  tallow  merchant. 

George.  —  Oh,  bother!  I  don't  care  about  that.  I 
shall  leave  that  when  I'm  a  man:  when  I'm  a  man  and 
come  into  my  property. 

IMiLLiKEN.  — You  come  into  your  property? 

George.  —  I  shall,  you  know,  when  you're  dead, 
papa.  I  shall  have  this  house,  and  Pigeoncot;  and  the 
house  in  town — no,  I  don't  mind  about  the  house 
in  town — and  I  shan't  let  Bella  live  with  me — no,  I 
won't. 

Bella.— No;  I  won't  live  with  you.  And  I'll  have 
Pigeoncot. 

George. — You  shan't  have  Pigeoncot.  I'll  have  it: 
and  the  ponies:  and  I  won't  let  you  ride  them — and  the 
dogs,  and  you  shan't  have  even  a  puppy  to  play  with — 
and  the  dairy — and  won't  I  have  as  much  cream  as  I 
like — that's  all! 

ToucHiT. — What  a  darling  boy!  Your  children  are 
brought  up  beautifully,  Milliken.  It's  quite  delightful 
to  see  them  together. 


386      THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 

George.— And  I  shall  sink  the  name  of  Milliken,  I 
shall. 

Milliken.— Sink  the  name?  why,  George? 

George. — Because  the  Millikens  are  nobodies — 
grandmamma  says  thej''  are  nobodies.  The  Kickleburys 
are  gentlemen,  and  came  over  with  William  the  Con- 
queror. 

Bella. — I  know  when  that  was.  One  thousand  one 
hundred  and  one  thousand  one  hundred  and  onety- 
one! 

George. — Bother  when  they  came  over!  But  I  know 
this,  when  I  come  into  the  property  I  shall  sink  the  name 
of  Milliken. 

Milliken.— So  you  are  ashamed  of  your  father's 
name,  are  you,  George,  my  boy? 

George. — Ashamed!  No,  I  ain't  ashamed.  Only 
Kicklebury  is  sweller.  I  know  it  is.  Grandmamma 
says  so. 

Bella. — My  grandmamma  does  not  say  so.  My  dear 
grandmamma  says  that  family  pride  is  sinful,  and  all 
belongs  to  this  wicked  world;  and  that  in  a  very  few 
years  what  our  names  are  will  not  matter. 

George. — Yes,  she  says  so  because  her  father  kept  a 
shop;  and  so  did  Pa's  father  keep  a  sort  of  shop— only 
Pa's  a  gentleman  now. 

ToucHiT. — Darling  child!  How  I  wish  I  were  mar- 
ried! If  I  had  such  a  dear  boy  as  you,  George,  do  you 
know  what  I  would  give  him? 

George  [quite  pleased].— Whsit  would  you  give 
him,  godpapa? 

ToucHiT.— I  would  give  him  as  sound  a  flogging  as 
ever  boy  had,  my  darling.  I  would  whip  this  nonsense 
out  of  him.    I  would  send  him  to  school,  where  I  would 


THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB      387 

pray  that  he  might  be  well  thrashed:  and  if  when  he 
came  home  he  was  still  ashamed  of  his  father,  I  would 
put  him  apprentice  to  a  chimney-sweep — that's  what  I 
would  do. 

George.— I'm  glad  you're  not  my  father,  that's  all. 

Bella.— And  Fm  glad  you're  not  my  father,  be- 
cause you  are  a  wicked  man ! 

MiLLiKEN. —Arabella ! 

Bella.— Grandmamma  says  so.  He  is  a  worldly 
man,  and  the  world  is  wicked.  And  he  goes  to  the  play: 
and  he  smokes,  and  he  says— 

ToucHiT.— Bella,  Mhat  do  I  say? 

Bella.  —  Oh,  something  dreadful!  You  know  you 
do !     I  heard  you  say  it  to  the  cabman. 

ToucHiT.— So  I  did,  so  I  did!  He  asked  me  fifteen 
shillings  from  Piccadilly,  and  I  told  him  to  go  to— to 
somebody  whose  name  begins  with  a  D. 

Children.  —  Here's  another  carriage  passing. 

BelLx\.  — The  Lady  Rumble's  carriage. 

George.— No,  it  ain't:  it's  Captain  Boxer's  carriage 
[tliey  run  into  the  garden], 

ToucHiT. — And  this  is  the  pass  to  which  you  have 
brought  yourself,  Horace  INIilliken!  Why,  in  your 
wife's  time,  it  was  better  than  this,  my  poor  fellow! 

Milliken. — Don't  speak  of  her  in  that  way,  George 

Touchit! 

Touc HIT.— What  have  I  said?  I  am  only  regretting 
her  loss  for  your  sake.  She  tyrannized  over  you ;  turned 
your  friends  out  of  doors;  took  your  name  out  of  your 
clubs;  dragged  you  about  from  party  to  party,  though 
you  can  no  more  dance  than  a  bear,  and  from  opera  to 
opera,  though  you  don't  know  "  God  Save  the  Queen" 
from  "  Rule  Britannia."     You  don't,  sir;  you  know  you 


388      THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 

don't.  But  Arabella  was  better  than  her  mother,  who 
has  taken  possession  of  you  since  your  widowhood. 

MiLLiKEN.— My  dear  fellow!  no,  she  hasn't.  There's 
my  mother. 

ToucHiT.— Yes,  to  be  sure,  there's  Mrs.  Bonnington, 
and  they  quarrel  over  you  like  the  two  ladies  over  the 
baby  before  King  Solomon. 

MiLLiKEN.— Play  the  satirist,  my  good  friend!  laugh 
at  my  weakness ! 

ToucHiT. — I  know  you  to  be  as  plucky  a  fellow  as 
ever  stepped,  Milliken,  when  a  man's  in  the  case.  I 
know  you  and  I  stood  up  to  each  other  for  an  hour  and 
a  half  at  Westminster. 

Milliken.  — Thank  you!  We  were  both  dragons  of 
war!  tremendous  champions!  Perhaps  I  am  a  little 
soft  as  regards  women.  I  know  my  weakness  well 
enough ;  but  in  my  case  what  is  my  remedy  ?  Put  your- 
self in  my  position.  Be  a  widower  with  two  young 
children.  What  is  more  natural  than  that  the  mother 
of  my  poor  wife  should  come  and  superintend  my 
family?  My  own  mother  can't.  She  has  a  half-dozen 
of  little  half  brothers  and  sisters,  and  a  husband  of  her 
own  to  attend  to.  I  dare  say  Mr.  Bonnington  and  my 
mother  will  come  to  dinner  to-day. 

ToucHiT.— Of  course  they  will,  my  poor  old  Milli- 
ken, you  don't  dare  to  dine  without  them. 

Milliken.— Don't  go  on  in  that  manner,  George 
Touchit!  Why  should  not  my  stepfather  and  my 
mother  dine  with  me?  I  can  afford  it.  I  am  a  domes- 
tic man  and  like  to  see  my  relations  about  me.  I  am  in 
the  city  all  day. 

Touchit.— Luckily  for  you. 

Milliken.— And  my  pleasure  of  an  evening  is  to  sit 


THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB      389 

under  my  own  vine  and  under  my  own  fig-tree  with  my 
own  olive-branches  round  about  me;  to  sit  by  my  fire 
with  my  children  at  my  knees ;  to  coze  over  a  snug  bot- 
tle of  claret  after  dinner  with  a  friend  like  you  to  share 
it;  to  see  the  young  folks  at  the  breakfast-table  of  a 
morning,  and  to  kiss  them  and  so  off  to  business  with 
a  cheerful  heart.  This  was  my  scheme  in  marrying,  had 
it  pleased  heaven  to  prosper  my  plan.  When  I  was  a 
boy  and  came  from  school  and  college,  I  used  to  see  Mr. 
Bonnington,  my  father-in-law,  with  his  young  ones 
clustering  round  about  him,  so  happy  to  be  with  him! 
so  eager  to  wait  on  him!  all  down  on  their  little  knees 
round  my  mother  before  breakfast  or  jumping  up  on 
his  after  dinner.  It  was  who  should  reach  his  hat,  and 
who  should  bring  his  coat,  and  who  should  fetch  his  um- 
brella, and  who  should  get  the  last  kiss. 

TouCHiT. — What?  didn't  he  kiss  you?  Oh,  the  hard- 
hearted old  ogre! 

JNIiLLiKEN.— Z)07i'ij  Touchit!  Don't  laugh  at  Mr. 
Bonnington!  He  is  as  good  a  fellow  as  ever  breathed. 
Between  you  and  me,  as  my  half  brothers  and  sisters 
increased  and  multiplied  year  after  year,  I  used  to  feel 
rather  lonely,  rather  bowled  out,  you  understand.  But 
I  saw  them  so  happy  that  I  longed  to  have  a  home  of 
my  own.  When  my  mother  proposed  Arabella  for  me 
(for  she  and  Lady  Kicklebury  were  immense  friends  at 
one  time ) ,  I  was  glad  enough  to  give  up  clubs  and  bach- 
elorhood, and  to  settle  down  as  a  married  man.  My 
mother  acted  for  the  best.  My  poor  wife's  character, 
my  mother  used  to  say,  changed  after  marriage.  I  was 
not  as  happy  as  I  hoped  to  be;  but  I  tried  for  it. 
George,  I  am  not  so  comfortable  now  as  I  might  be.  A 
house  without  a  mistress,  with  two  mothers-in-law  reign- 


390      THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 

ing  over  it — one  worldly  and  aristocratic,  another  what 
you  call  serious,  though  she  don't  mind  a  rubber  of 
whist:  I  give  you  my  honour  my  mother  plays  a  game 
at  whist,  and  an  uncommonly  good  game  too — each 
woman  dragging  over  a  child  to  her  side :  of  course  such 
a  family  cannot  be  comfortable.  \_Bell  rings. ^  There's 
the  first  dinner-bell.     Go  and  dress,  for  heaven's  sake. 

ToucHiT.— Why  dress?     There  is  no  company! 

MiLLiKEN.— Why?  ah!  her  ladyship  likes  it,  you  see. 
And  it  costs  nothing  to  humour  her.  Quick,  for  she 
don't  like  to  be  kept  waiting. 

ToucHiT.— Horace  Milliken!  what  a  pity  it  is  the 
law  declares  a  widower  shall  not  marry  his  wife's 
mother!  She  would  marry  you  else,— she  would,  on  my 
word. 

Enter  John. 

John. — I  have  took  the  Captain's  things  in  the  blue 
room,  sir.     [Exeunt  gentlemen,  John  arranges  tables^ 

Ha!  Mrs.  Prior!  I  ain't  partial  to  Mrs.  Prior.  I 
think  she's  an  artful  old  dodger,  Mrs.  Prior.  I  think 
there's  mystery  in  her  unfathomable  pockets,  and 
schemes  in  the  folds  of  her  umbrella.  But— but  she's 
Julia's  mother,  and  for  the  beloved  one's  sake  I  am  civil 
to  her. 

Mrs.  Prior.— Thank  you,  Charles  [to  the  Page,  who 
has  been  seen  to  let  her  in  at  the  garden-gate],  I  am  so 
much  obliged  to  you!  Good  afternoon,  Mr.  Howell. 
Is  my  daughter— are  the  darling  children  well?  Oh,  I 
am  quite  tired  and  weary!  Three  horrid  omnibuses 
w^re  full,  and  I  have  had  to  walk  the  whole  weary  long 
way.      All,  times  are  changed  with  me,  Mr.  Howell. 


THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB      391 

Once  when  I  was  young  and  strong,  I  had  my  husband's 
carriage  to  ride  in. 

John  [aside].  — His  carriage!  his  coal-waggon!  I 
know  well  enough  who  old  Prior  was.  A  merchant? 
yes,  a  pretty  merchant!  kep'  a  lodging-house,  share  in 
a  barge,  touting  for  orders,  and  at  last  a  snug  little  place 
in  the  Gazette. 

Mrs.  Prior.  — How  is  your  cough,  Mr.  Howell?  I 
have  brought  you  some  lozenges  for  it  [takes  number- 
less articles  from  her  pocket],  and  if  you  would  take 
them  of  a  night  and  morning — oh,  indeed,  you  would 
get  better !  The  late  Sir  Henry  Half ord  recommended 
them  to  Mr.  Prior.  He  was  his  late  Majesty's  physi- 
cian and  ours.  You  know  we  have  seen  happier  times, 
Mr.  Howell.     Oh,  I  am  quite  tired  and  faint. 

John. — Will  you  take  anything  before  the  school- 
room tea,  ma'am?  You  will  stop  to  tea,  I  hope,  with 
Miss  Prior,  and  our  young  folks? 

Mrs.  Prior.  — Thank  you:  a  little  glass  of  wine  when 
one  is  so  faint — a  little  crumb  of  biscuit  when  one  is  so 
old  and  tired!  I  have  not  been  accustomed  to  want, 
you  know;  and  in  my  poor  dear  Mr.  Prior's  time — 

John.— I'll  fetch  some  wine,  ma'am.  [Exit  to  the 
dining-room.] 

Mrs.  Prior.— Bless  the  man,  how  abrupt  he  is  in  his 
manner!  He  quite  shocks  a  poor  lady  who  has  been 
used  to  better  days.  What's  here?  Invitations— ho! 
Bills  for  Lady  Kicklebury!  They  are  not  paid.  Where 
is  Mr.  M.  going  to  dine,  I  wonder?  Captain  and  Mrs. 
Hopkinson,  Sir  John  and  Lady  Tomkinson,  request 
the  pleasure.  Request  the  pleasure!  Of  course  they  do. 
They  are  always  asking  Mr.  M.  to  dinner.  They  have 
daughters  to  marry,  and  Mr.  M.  is  a  widower  with  three 


392      THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 

thousand  a  year,  every  shilling  of  it.  I  must  tell  Lady 
Kicklebury.  He  must  never  go  to  these  places — never, 
never— mustn't  be  allowed.  [While  talking,  she  opens 
all  the  letters  on  the  table,  rununages  the  portfolio  and, 
writing-box,  looks  at  cards  on  mantelpiece,  work  in 
work-basket,  tries  tea-box,  and  shows  the  greatest  activ- 
ity and  curiosity.^ 

Re-enter  John,  bearing  a  tray  with  cakes,  a 
decanter,  <§c. 

Thank  you,  thank  you,  Mr.  Howell!  Oh,  oh,  dear 
me,  not  so  much  as  that!  Half  a  glass,  and  one  bis- 
cuit, please.  What  elegant  sherry!  \^sips  a  little,  and 
puts  down  glass  on  tray^.  Do  you  know,  I  remem- 
ber in  better  days,  Mr.  Howell,  when  my  poor  dear 
husband —  ? 

John.— Beg  your  pardon.  There's  Milliken's  bell 
going  like  mad.     [Exit  John.] 

Mrs.  Prior.— What  an  abrupt  person!  Oh,  but  it's 
comfortable,  this  wine  is!  And — and  I  think  how  my 
poor  Charlotte  would  like  a  little — she  so  weak,  and 
ordered  wine  by  the  medical  man!  And  when  dear 
Adolphus  comes  home  from  Christ's  Hospital,  quite 
tired,  poor  boy,  and  hungry,  wouldn't  a  bit  of  nice  cake 
do  him  good!  Adolphus  is  so  fond  of  plum-cake,  the 
darling  child!  And  so  is  Frederick,  little  saucy  rogue; 
and  I'll  give  them  77iy  piece,  and  keep  my  glass  of  wine 
for  my  dear  delicate  angel  Shatty!  [Takes  bottle  and 
paper  out  of  her  pocket,  cuts  off  a  great  slice  of  cake, 
and  pours  wine  from  wine-glass  and  decanter  into 
bottle.^ 


THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB      393 

Enter  Page. 

Page.— Master  George  and  Miss  Bella  is  going  to 
have  their  teas  down  here  with  Miss  Prior,  Mrs.  Prior, 
and  she's  up  in  the  school-room,  and  my  lady  says  you 
may  stay  to  tea. 

Mrs.  Prior.  — Thank  you,  Charles!  How  tall  you 
grow!  Those  trousers  would  fit  my  darling  Frederick 
to  a  nicety.  Thank  you,  Charles.  I  know  the  way  to 
the  nursery.     [Exit  Mrs.  P.] 

Page.— Know  the  way!  I  believe  she  do  know  the 
way.  Been  a  having  cake  and  wine.  Howell  always 
gives  her  cake  and  wine— jolly  cake,  ain't  it!  and  wine, 
oh,  my! 

Re-enter  John. 

John. — You  young  gormandizing  cormorant!  What! 
five  meals  a  day  ain't  enough  for  you!  What?  beer 
ain't  good  enough  for  you,  hey?     [Pulls  hoy's  ears.] 

Page  Icrying].  — Oh,  oh,  do-o-n't,  Mr.  Howell.  I 
only  took  half  a  glass,  upon  my  honour. 

John.— Your  a-honour,  you  lying  young  vagabond! 
I  wonder  the  ground  don't  open  and  swallow  you.  Half 
a  glass!  [holds  up  decanter.']  You've  took  half  a  bot- 
tle, you  young  Ananias !  Mark  this,  sir !  When  I  was 
a  boy,  a  boy  on  my  promotion,  a  child  kindly  took  in 
from  charity-school,  a  horphan  in  buttons  like  you,  I 
never  lied;  no,  nor  never  stole,  and  you've  done  both, 
you  little  scoundrel.  Don't  tell  me,  sir!  there's  plums 
on  your  coat,  crumbs  on  your  cheek,  and  you  smell 
sherry,  sir !  I  ain't  time  to  whop  you  now,  but  come  to 
my  pantry  to-night  after  you've  took  the  tray  down. 


394      THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 

Come  without  your  jacket  on,  sir,  and  then  I'll  teach 
you  what  it  is  to  lie  and  steal.  There's  the  outer  bell. 
Scud,  you  vagabond! 

Enter  Lady  K. 

Lady  K.— What  was  that  noise,  pray? 

John. — A  difference  between  me  and  young  Page, 
my  lady.  I  was  instructing  him  to  keep  his  hands  from 
picking  and  stealing.  I  was  learning  him  his  lesson, 
my  lady,  and  he  was  a-crying  it  out. 

Lady  K. — It  seems  to  me  you  are  most  unkind  to 
that  boy,  Howell.  He  is  my  boy,  sir.  He  comes  from 
my  estate.  I  will  not  have  him  ill-used.  I  think  you 
presume  on  your  long  services.  I  shall  speak  to  ni}^  son- 
in-law  about  you.  ["  Yes,  my  lady;  no,  my  lady;  very 
good,  my  lady."  John  has  answered  each  sentence  as 
she  is  sjjcaking,  and  exit  gravely  howing.~\  That  man 
must  quit  the  house.  Horace  says  he  can't  do  without 
him,  but  he  must  do  without  him.  My  poor  dear  Ara- 
bella was  fond  of  him,  but  he  presumes  on  that  defunct 
angel's  partiality.  Horace  says  this  person  keeps  all 
his  accounts,  sorts  all  his  letters,  manages  all  his  affairs, 
may  be  trusted  with  untold  gold,  and  rescued  little 
George  out  of  the  fire.  Now  I  have  come  to  live  with 
my  son-in-law,  I  will  keep  his  accounts,  sort  his  letters, 
and  take  charge  of  his  money :  and  if  little  Georgy  gets 
into  the  grate,  I  will  take  him  out  of  the  fire.  What  is 
here?  Invitation  from  Captain  and  Mrs.  Hopkinson. 
Invitation  from  Sir  John  and  Lady  Tomkinson,  who 
don't  even  ask  me!  Monstrous!  he  never  shall  go— he 
shall  not  go!  [Mrs.  Prior  has  re-entered,  she  drops  a 
very  low  curtsey  to  Lady  K.,  as  the  latter ,  perceiving 
her,  lays  the  cards  down.'] 


THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB      395 

Mrs.  Prior.— All,  dear  madam!  how  kind  your  lady- 
ship's message  was  to  the  poor  lonely  widowwoman! 
Oh,  how  thoughtful  it  was  of  your  ladyship  to  ask  me 
to  stay  to  tea ! 

Lady  K. — With  your  daughter  and  the  children? 
Indeed,  my  good  Mrs.  Prior,  you  are  very  wel- 
come !  ' 

JNIrs.  Prior. — Ah!  but  isn't  it  a  cause  of  thankful- 
ness to  be  made  welcome?  Oughtn't  I  to  be  grateful 
for  these  blessings? — yes,  I  say  blessings.  And  I  am — 
I  am,  Lady  Kicklebury — to  the  mother — of — that  angel 
who  is  gone  \^points  to  the  2)lctiire'\ .  It  was  your  sainted 
daughter  left  us — left  my  child  to  the  care  of  Mr.  Milli- 
ken,  and — and  you,  who  are  now  his  guardian  angel  I 
may  say.  You  are^  Lady  Kicklebury — you  are.  I  say 
to  my  girl,  Julia,  Lady  Kicklebury  is  Mr.  Milliken's 
guardian  angel,  is  your  guardian  angel — for  without 
you  could  she  keep  her  place  as  governess  to  these  dar- 
ling children?  It  would  tear  her  heart  in  two  to  leave 
them,  and  yet  she  would  be  forced  to  do  so.  You  know 
that  some  one — shall  I  hesitate  to  say  whom  I  mean? — 
that  Mr.  Milliken's  mother,  excellent  lady  though  she 
is,  does  not  love  my  child  because  yoii  love  her.  You 
do  love  her.  Lady  Kicklebury,  and  oh !  a  mother's  fond 
heart  i^ays  you  back !  But  for  you,  my  poor  Julia  must 
go — go,  and  leave  the  children  whom  a  dying  angel 
confided  to  her! 

Lady  K.— Go!  no,  never!  not  whilst  I  am  in  this 
house,  Mrs.  Prior.  Your  daughter  is  a  well-behaved 
young  woman:  you  have  confided  to  me  her  long  en- 
gagement to  Lieutenant — Lieutenant  What-d'you- 
call'im,  in  the  Indian  service.  She  has  been  very,  very 
good  to  my  grandchildren — she  brought  them  over  from 


396      THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 

Naples  when  my— my  angel  of  an  Arabella  died  there, 
and  I  will  protect  Miss  Prior. 

Mrs.  Prior.— Bless  you,  bless  you,  noble,  admirable 
woman!  Don't  take  it  away!  I  must,  I  will  kiss  your 
dear,  generous  hand !  Take  a  mother's,  a  widow's  bless- 
ings. Lady  Kicklebury— the  blessings  of  one  who  has 
known  misfortune  and  seen  better  days,  and  thanks 
heaven — yes,  heaven!— for  the  protectors  she  has  found! 

Lady  K. — You  said— you  had— several  children,  I 
think,  my  good  Mrs.  Prior? 

Mrs.  Prior.  — Three  boys— one,  my  eldest  blessing,  is 
in  a  wine-merchant's  office— ah,  if  Mr.  Milliken  would 
but  give  him  an  order!  an  order  from  this  house!  an 
order  from  Lady  Kicklebury's  son-in-law! — 

Lady  K.  — It  shall  be  done,  my  good  Prior — we  will 
see. 

Mrs.  Prior.— Another,  Adolphus,  dear  fellow!  is  in 
Christ's  Hospital.  It  was  dear,  good  Mr.  Milliken's 
nomination.  Frederick  is  at  Merchant  Taylor's:  my 
darling  Julia  pays  his  schooling.  Besides,  I  have  two 
girls — Amelia,  quite  a  little  toddler,  just  the  size,  though 
not  so  beautiful — but  in  a  mother's  eyes  all  children  are 
lovely,  dear  Lady  Kicklebury — just  the  size  of  your 
dear  granddaughter,  whose  clothes  would  fit  her,  I  am 
sure.  And  my  second,  Charlotte,  a  girl  as  tall  as  your 
ladyship,  though  not  with  so  fine  a  figure.  "  Ah,  no, 
Shatty!"  I  say  to  her,  "you  are  as  tall  as  our  dear 
patroness.  Lady  Kicklebury,  whom  you  long  so  to  see; 
but  you  have  not  got  her  ladyship's  carriage  and  figure, 
child."  Five  children  have  I,  left  fatherless  and  penni- 
less by  my  poor  dear  husband — but  heaven  takes  care 
of  the  widow  and  orphan,  madam — and  heaven's  best 
creatures  feed  them! — you  know  whom  I  mean. 


THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB      397 

LiUDY  K.— Should  you  not  like,  would  you  object  to 
take— a  frock  or  two  of  little  Arabella's  to  your  child? 
and  if  Pinhorn,  my  maid,  will  let  me,  Mrs.  Prior,  I  will 
see  if  I  cannot  find  something  against  winter  for  your 
second  daughter,  as  you  say  we  are  of  a  size. 

Mrs.  Prior.  — The  widow's  and  orphans'  blessings 
upon  you !  I  said  my  Charlotte  was  as  tall,  but  I  never 
said  she  had  such  a  figure  as  yours— who  has? 

Charles  announces— 

Charles. — Mrs.   Bonnington.      [Enter  Mrs.   Bon- 

NINGTON.] 

Mrs.  B.— How  do  you  do.  Lady  Kicklebury? 

Lady  K.— My  dear  Mrs.  Bonnington!  and  you  come 
to  dinner  of  course  ? 

Mrs.  B.  — To  dine  with  my  own  son,  J  may  take  the 
liberty.  How  are  my  grandchildren?  my  darling  little 
Emily,  is  she  well,  Mrs.  Prior? 

Lady  K.  [aside]. — Emily?  why  does  she  not  call  the 
child  by  her  blessed  mother's  name  of  Arabella?  [To 
Mrs.  B.]  Arabella  is  quite  well,  Mrs.  Bonnington. 
Mr.  Squillings  said  it  was  nothing;  only  her  grand- 
mamma Bonnington  spoiling  her  as  usual.  Mr.  Bon- 
nington and  all  your  numerous  young  folk  are  well,  I 
hope  ? 

Mrs.  B. — My  family  are  all  in  perfect  health,  I  thank 
you.     Is  Horace  come  home  from  the  city? 

Lady  K.  — Goodness!  there's  the  dinner-bell, — I  must 
run  to  dress. 

Mrs.  Prior.— Shall  I  come  with  you,  dear  Lady 
Kicklebury  ? 

Lady  K.— Not  for  worlds,  my  good  Mrs.  Prior. 
[Exit  Lady  K.] 


398      THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 

Mrs.  Prior. — How  do  3^011  do,  my  dear  madam?  Is 
dear  Mr.  Bonnington  quite  well?  What  a  sweet,  sweet 
sermon  he  gave  us  last  Sunday.  I  often  say  to  my  girl, 
I  must  not  go  to  hear  INIr.  Bonnington,  I  really  must 
not,  he  makes  me  cry  so.  Oh!  he  is  a  great  and  gifted 
man,  and  shall  I  not  have  one  glimpse  of  him? 

Mrs.  B. — Saturday  evening,  my  good  Mrs.  Prior. 
Don't  you  know  that  my  husband  never  goes  out  on 
Saturday,  having  his  sermon  to  compose? 

Mrs.  p. — Oh,  those  dear,  dear  sermons!  Do  you 
know,  madam,  that  my  little  Adolphus,  for  whom  your 
son's  bounty  procured  his  place  at  Christ's  Hospital,  was 
very  much  touched  indeed,  the  dear  child,  with  Mr.  Bon- 
nington's  discourse  last  Sunday  three  weeks,  and  refused 
to  play  marbles  afterwards  at  school?  The  wicked, 
naughty  boys  beat  the  poor  child ;  but  Adolphus  has  his 
consolation!  Is  Master  Edward  well,  ma'am,  and  Mas- 
ter Robert,  and  Master  Frederick,  and  dear  little  funny 
Master  William? 

Mrs.  B.  — Thank  you,  Mrs.  Prior;  you  have  a  good 
heart,  indeed! 

Mrs.  p.— Ah,  what  blessings  those  dears  are  to  you! 
I  wish  your  dearest  little  graiidson — 

Mrs.  B.  — The  little  naughty  wretch!  Do  you  know, 
Mrs.  Prior,  my  grandson,  George  Milliken,  spilt  the  ink 
over  my  dear  husband's  bands,  which  he  keeps  in  his 
great  dictionary;  and  fought  with  my  child,  Frederick, 
who  is  three  years  older  than  George — actually  beat  his 
own  uncle! 

Mrs.  p.  — Gracious  mercy!  Master  Frederick  was 
not  hurt,  I  hope  ? 

Mrs.  B. — No;  he  cried  a  great  deal;  and  then  Robert 
came  up,  and  that  graceless  little  George  took  a  stick; 


THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB      399 

and  then  my  husband  came  out,  and  do  you  know 
George  MilHken  actually  kicked  ]\Ir.  Bonnington  on  his 
shins,  and  butted  him  like  a  little  naughty  ram? 

Mrs.  p.— IMercy!  mercy!  what  a  little  rebel!  He  is 
spoiled,  dear  madam,  and  you  know  by  tcliom. 

Mrs.  B. — By  his  grandmamma  Kicklebury.  I  know 
it.  I  want  my  son  to  whip  that  child,  but  he  refuses. 
He  will  come  to  no  good,  that  child. 

Mrs.  p.— Ah,  madam!  don't  say  so!  Let  us  hope 
for  the  best,  blaster  George's  high  temper  will  subside 
when  certain  persons  who  pet  him  are  gone  away. 

Mrs.  B.— Gone  away!  they  never  will  go  away!  No, 
mark  my  words,  INIrs.  Prior,  that  woman  will  never  go 
away.  She  has  made  the  house  her  own :  she  commands 
everything  and  everybodj^  in  it.  She  has  driven  me— 
me— Mr.  Milliken's  own  mother— almost  out  of  it.  She 
has  so  annoyed  my  dear  husband,  that  Mr.  Bonnington 
will  scarcely  come  here.  Is  she  not  always  sneering  at 
private  tutors,  because  Mr.  Bonnington  was  my  son's 
private  tutor,  and  greatly  valued  by  the  late  Mr.  Milli- 
ken?  Is  she  not  making  constant  allusions  to  old  women 
marrjnng  young  men,  because  Mr.  Bonnington  happens 
to  be  younger  than  me?  I  have  no  words  to  express  my 
indignation  respecting  Lady  Kicklebury.  She  never 
pays  any  one,  and  runs  up  debts  in  the  whole  town.  Her 
man  Bulkeley's  conduct  in  the  neighbourhood  is  quite 
— quite — 

Mrs.  B.— Gracious  goodness,  ma'am,  you  don't  say 
so !  And  then  what  an  appetite  the  gormandizing  mon- 
ster has!  Mary  tells  me  that  Avhat  he  eats  in  the  ser- 
vants' hall  is  something  perfectly  frightful. 

Mrs.  B.— Everybody  feeds  on  my  poor  son!  You 
are  looking  at  my  cap,  Mrs.  Prior?     [During  this  time 


400      THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 

Mrs.  Prior  has  been  peering  into  a  parcel  which  Mrs. 
BoNNiNGTON  hrought  in  her  hand.']  I  brought  it  with 
me  across  the  Park.  I  could  not  walk  through  the  Park 
in  my  cap.     Isn't  it  a  pretty  ribbon,  Mrs.  Prior? 

Mrs.  p. — Beautiful!  beautiful!  How  blue  becomes 
you!  Who  would  think  you  were  the  mother  of  Mr. 
Milliken  and  seven  other  darling  children?  You  can 
afford  what  Lady  Kicklebury  cannot. 

Mrs.  B.— And  what  is  that,  Prior?  A  poor  clergy- 
man's wife,  with  a  large  family,  cannot  afford  much. 

Mrs.  p.— He!  he!  You  can  afford  to  be  seen  as  you 
are,  which  Lady  K.  cannot.  Did  you  not  remark  how 
afraid  she  seemed  lest  I  should  enter  her  dressing-room  ? 
Only  Pinhorn,  her  maid,  goes  there,  to  arrange  the  roses, 
and  the  lilies,  and  the  figure— he!  he!  Oh,  what  a 
sweet,  sweet  cap-ribbon!  When  you  have  worn  it,  and 
are  tired  of  it,  you  will  give  it  me,  won't  you?  It  will 
be  good  enough  for  poor  old  Martha  Prior! 

Mrs.  B.— Do  you  really  like  it?  Call  at  Greenwood 
Place,  Mrs.  Prior,  the  next  time  you  pay  Richmond  a 
visit,  and  bring  your  little  girl  with  you,  and  we  will  see. 

Mrs.  p.  — Oh,  thank  you!  thank  you!  Nay,  don't  be 
offended!    I  must!    I  must!     [Kisses  Mrs.  Bonning- 

TON.] 

]Mrs.  B.  — There,  there!  We  must  not  stay  chatter- 
ing! The  bell  has  rung.  I  must  go  and  put  the  cap 
on,  Mrs.  Prior. 

Mrs.  p.— And  I  may  come,  too?  You  are  not  afraid 
of  my  seeing  your  hair,  dear  Mrs.  Bonnington!  Mr. 
Bonnington  too  young  for  you!  Why,  you  don't  look 
twenty ! 

Mrs.  B.-Oh,  Mrs.  Prior! 

Mrs.  p.— Well,  five-and-twenty,  upon  my  word— 


THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB      401 

not  more  than  five-and-twenty — and  that  is  the  very 
prime  of  life!  [Exeunt  Mrs.  B.  and  Mrs.  P.  hand  in 
hand.  As  Captain  Touchit  enters,  dressed  for  dinner, 
he  botes  and  passes  on.^ 

Touchit. — So,  we  are  to  wear  our  white  cravats,  and 
our  varnished  boots,  and  dine  in  ceremony.  What  is 
the  use  of  a  man  being  a  widower,  if  he  can't  dine  in  his 
shooting-jacket?  Poor  Mill!  He  has  the  slavery  now 
without  the  wife.  [He  speaks  sarcastically  to  the  pic- 
ture.]—WeW,  well!  Mrs.  ^liUiken!  You,  at  any  rate, 
are  gone;  and,  with  the  utmost  respect  for  you,  I  like 
your  picture  even  better  than  the  original.     Miss  Prior ! 

Enter  Miss  Prior. 

Miss  Prior. — I  beg  pardon.  I  thought  you  were 
gone  to  dinner.  I  heard  the  second  bell  some  time  since. 
[She  is  drawing  back.] 

Touchit.— Stop!  I  say,  Julia!  [She  returns,  he 
looks  at  her,  takes  her  hand.]  Why  do  you  dress  your- 
self in  this  odd  poky  way?  You  used  to  be  a  very 
smartly  dressed  girl.  Why  do  you  hide  your  hair,  and 
wear  such  a  dowdy,  high  gown,  Julia? 

Julia. — You  mustn't  call  me  Julia,  Captain  Touchit. 

Touchit.— Why?  when  I  lived  in  your  mother's 
lodging,  I  called  you  Julia.  When  you  brought  up 
the  tea,  you  didn't  mind  being  called  Julia.  When  we 
used  to  go  to  the  play  with  the  tickets  the  Editor  gave 
us,  who  lived  on  the  second  floor — 

Julia.— The  wretch!— don't  speak  of  him! 

Touchit.  —  Ah!  I  am  afraid  he  was  a  sad  deceiver, 
that  Editor.  He  was  a  very  clever  fellow.  What  droll 
songs  he  used  to  sing!    What  a  heap  of  play-tickets, 


402      THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 

diorama-tickets,  concert-tickets,  he  used  to  give  you! 
Did  he  touch  your  heart,  Juha? 

Julia.  — Fiddlededee!  No  man  ever  touched  my 
heart,  Captain  Touchit. 

ToucHiT.— What!  not  even  Tom  FHght,  who  had 
the  second  floor  after  the  Editor  left  it — and  who  cried 
so  bitterly  at  the  idea  of  going  out  to  India  without  you  ? 
You  had  a  tendre  for  him — a  little  passion — you  know 
you  had.  Why,  even  the  ladies  here  know  it.  Mrs. 
Bonnington  told  me  that  you  were  waiting  for  a  sweet- 
heart in  India,  to  whom  you  were  engaged;  and  Lady 
Kicklebury  thinks  you  are  dying  in  love  for  the  absent 
swain. 

Julia.  — I  hope — I  hope— you  did  not  contradict 
them.  Captain  Touchit. 

Touchit.— Why  not,  my  dear? 

Julia. — May  I  be  frank  with  you?  You  were  a 
kind,  very  kind  friend  to  us — to  me,  in  my  youth. 

Touchit. — I  paid  my  lodgings  regularly,  and  my 
bills  without  asking  questions,  I  never  weighed  the  tea 
in  the  caddy,  or  counted  the  lumps  of  sugar,  or  heeded 
the  rapid  consumption  of  my  liqueur — 

Julia. — Hush,  hush!  I  know  they  were  taken.  I 
know  you  were  very  good  to  us.  You  helped  my  poor 
papa  out  of  many  a  difficulty. 

Touchit  [aside~\. — Tipsy  old  coal-merchant!  I  did, 
and  he  helped  himself  too. 

Julia. — And  you  were  always  our  best  friend.  Cap- 
tain Touchit.  When  our  misfortunes  came,  you  got  me 
this  situation  with  Mrs.  Milliken — and,  and — don't  you 
see? — 

Touchit.— Well— what? 

Julia  [laughing^.  —  I  think  it  is  best,  under  the  cir- 


THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAI^IB      403 

cumstances,  that  the  ladies  here  should  suppose  I  am 
engaged  to  be  married— or— or,  they  might  be— might 
be  jealous,  you  understand.  Women  are  sometimes 
jealous  of  others,— especially  mothers  and  mothers-in- 
law. 

TouCHiT.— Oh,  you  arch-schemer!  And  it  is  for 
that  you  cover  up  that  beautiful  hair  of  yours,  and  wear 
that  demure  cap? 

Julia  Islylij].  —  !  am  subject  to  rheumatism  in  the 
head.  Captain  Touchit. 

ToucHiT.— It  is  for  that  you  put  on  the  spectacles, 
and  make  yourself  look  a  hundred  years  old? 

Julia.— INIy  eyes  are  weak.  Captain  Touchit. 

Touchit.— Weak  with  weeping  for  Tom  Flight. 
You  hypocrite!     Show  me  your  eyes? 

Miss  P.  — Nonsense! 

Touchit.  — Show  me  your  eyes,  I  say,  or  I'll  tell 
about  Tom  Flight,  and  that  he  has  been  married  at 
Madras  these  two  years. 

Miss  P.— Oh,  you  horrid  man!  [takes  glasses  off.] 
There. 

Touchit.— Translucent  orbs!  beams  of  flashing 
light!  lovely  lashes  veiling  celestial  brightness!  No, 
they  haven't  cried  much  for  Tom  Flight,  that  faithless 
captain!  nor  for  Lawrence  O'Reilly,  that  killing  Edi- 
tor. It  is  lucky  you  keep  the  glasses  on  them,  or  they 
would  transfix  Horace  Milliken,  my  friend  the  widower 
here.  Do  you  always  wear  them  when  you  are  alone 
with  him? 

Miss  P. — I  never  am  alone  with  him.  Bless  me!  If 
Lady  Kicklebury  thought  my  eyes  were— well,  well  — 
you  know  what  I  mean,— if  she  thought  her  son-in-law 
looked  at  me,  I  should  be  turned  out  of  doors  the  next 


404      THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 

day,  I  am  sure  I  should.  And  then,  poor  Mr.  Milhken ! 
he  never  looks  at  me—hesiven  help  him!  Why,  he  can't 
see  me  for  her  ladyship's  nose  and  awful  caps  and  rib- 
bons! He  sits  and  looks  at  the  portrait  yonder,  and 
sighs  so.  He  thinks  that  he  is  lost  in  grief  for  his  wife 
at  this  very  moment. 

ToucHiT.— What  a  woman  that  was— eh,  Julia— 
that  departed  angel!  What  a  temper  she  had  before 
her  departure! 

Miss  P.— But  the  wind  was  tempered  to  the  lamb. 
If  she  was  angry— the  lamb  was  so  very  lamblike,  and 
meek,  and  fleecy. 

ToucHiT.— And  what  a  desperate  flirt  the  departed 
angel  was!  I  knew  half-a-dozen  fellows,  before  her 
marriage,  whom  she  threw  over,  because  Milliken  was 
so  rich. 

Miss  P. — She  was  consistent  at  least,  and  did  not 
change  after  marriage,  as  some  ladies  do;  but  flirted, 
as  you  call  it,  just  as  much  as  before.  At  Paris,  young 
Mr.  Verney,  the  attache,  was  never  out  of  the  house: 
at  Rome,  Mr.  Beard,  the  artist,  was  always  drawing 
pictures  of  her:  at  Naples,  when  poor  Mr.  M.  went 
away  to  look  after  his  affairs  at  St.  Petersburg,  little 
Count  Posilippo  was  for  ever  coming  to  learn  English 
and  practise  duets.  She  scarcely  ever  saw  the  poor  chil- 
dren—[changing  her  manner  as  Lady  Kicklebury 
enters'l     Hush— my  lady! 

ToucHiT. — You  may  well  say,  "  poor  children,"  de- 
prived of  such  a  woman!  Miss  Prior,  whom  I  knew  in 
very  early  days— as  your  ladyship  knows— was  speak- 
ing—was speaking  of  the  loss  our  poor  friend  sustained. 

Lady  K.— Ah,  sir,  what  a  loss!  [looking  at  the  pic- 
ture.1 


THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB      405 

ToucHiT. — What  a  woman  she  was — what  a  superior 
creature ! 

Lady  K. — A  creature — an  angel! 

ToucHiT.— Mercy  upon  us!  how  she  and  my  lady 
used  to  quarrel!  [aside.]     What  a  temper! 

Lady  K.— Hm— oh,  yes— what  a  temper  [rather 
doubtfully  at  first~\. 

ToucHiT.— What  a  loss  to  Milliken  and  the  darling 
children ! 

Miss  Prior.— Luckily  they  have  you  with  them, 
madam. 

Lady  K.— And  I  will  stay  with  them.  Miss  Prior;  I 
will  stay  with  them!  I  will  never  part  from  Horace,  I 
am  determined. 

Miss  P.— Ah!  I  am  very  glad  you  stay,  for  if  I  had 
not  you  for  a  protector  I  think  you  know  I  must  go, 
Lady  Kicklebury.  I  think  you  know  there  are  those 
who  would  forget  my  attachment  to  these  darling  chil- 
dren, my  services  to— to  her— and  dismiss  the  poor  gov- 
erness. But  while  you  stay  I  can  stay,  dear  Lady 
Kicklebury!  With  you  to  defend  me  from  jealousy  I 
need  not  quite  be  afraid. 

Lady  K.— Of  Mrs.  Bonnington?  Of  Mr.  Milliken's 
mother;  of  the  parson's  wife  who  writes  out  his  stupid 
sermons,  and  has  half-a-dozen  children  of  her  own?  I 
should  think  not  indeed !  I  am  the  natural  protector  of 
these  children.  I  am  their  mother.  I  have  no  husband ! 
You  stay  in  this  house.  Miss  Prior.  You  are  a  faithful, 
attached  creature — though  you  were  sent  in  by  some- 
body I  don't  like  very  much  [pointing  to  Touchit,  who 
went  off  laughing  when  Julia  began  her  speech,  and  is 
now  looking  at  prints,  8^c.,  in  next  rooml. 

Miss  P.— Captain  Touchit  may  not  be  in  all  things 


406      THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 

what  one  could  wish.  But  his  kindness  has  formed  the 
happiness  of  my  hfe  in  making  me  acquainted  with  you, 
ma'am:  and  I  am  sure  you  would  not  have  me  be  un- 
grateful to  him. 

Lady  K. — A  most  highly  principled  young  woman. 
[Goes  out  in  garden  and  walks  up  and  down  with  Cap- 
tain TOUCHIT.] 

Enter  Mrs.  Bonnington. 

Miss  P.  — Oh,  how  glad  I  am  you  are  come,  Mrs. 
Bonnington.  Have  you  brought  me  that  pretty  hymn 
you  promised  me?  You  always  keep  your  promises, 
even  to  poor  governesses.  I  read  dear  JNIr.  Bonning- 
ton's  sermon!  It  was  so  interesting  that  I  really  could 
not  think  of  going  to  sleep  until  I  had  read  it  all 
through;  it  was  delightful,  but  oh!  it's  still  better  when 
he  preaches  it!  I  hope  I  did  not  do  wrong  in  copying 
a  part  of  it  ?  I  wish  to  impress  it  on  the  children.  There 
are  some  worldly  influences  at  work  with  them,  dear 
madam  [looking  at  Lady  K.  in  the  garden^,  which  I  do 
my  feeble  effort  to — to  modify.  I  wish  you  could  come 
oftener. 

Mrs.  B.— I  will  try,  my  dear— I  will  try.  Emily  has 
sweet  dispositions. 

Mrs.  p. — Ah,  she  takes  after  her  grandmamma  Bon- 
nington ! 

Mrs.  B. — But  George  was  sadly  fractious  just  now 
in  the  schoolroom  because  I  tried  him  with  a  tract. 

Miss  P.— Let  us  hope  for  better  times!  Do  be  with 
your  children,  dear  Mrs.  Bonnington,  as  constantly  as 
ever  you  can,  for  my  sake  as  well  as  theirs !  I  want  pro- 
tection and  advice  as  well  as  they  do.     The  governess^ 


THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAINIB      407 

dear  lady,  looks  up  to  you  as  well  as  the  pupils;  slic 
wants  the  teaching  which  you  and  dear  ]Mr.  Bonnington 
can  give  her!  Ah,  why  could  not  INIr.  and  Mrs.  Bon- 
nington come  and  live  here,  I  often  think?  The  chil- 
dren would  have  companions  in  their  dear  young  uncles 
and  aunts ;  so  pleasant  it  would  be.  The  house  is  quite 
large  enough;  that  is,  if  her  ladyship  did  not  occupy 
the  three  south  rooms  in  the  left  wing.  Ah,  why,  why 
couldn't  you  come? 

Mrs.  B. — You  are  a  kind,  affectionate  creature.  Miss 
Prior.  I  do  not  very  much  like  the  gentleman  who 
recommended  you  to  Arabella,  you  know.  But  I  do 
think  he  sent  my  son  a  good  governess  for  his  children. 

Two  Ladies  walk  up  and  down  in  front  garden. 
ToucHiT  enters. 

ToucHiT. — Miss  Julia  Prior,  you  are  a  wonder!  I 
watch  you  with  respect  and  surprise. 

Miss  P. — Me!  what  have  I  done?  a  poor  friendless 
governess — respect  me  ? 

TouCHiT.— I  have  a  mind  to  tell  those  two  ladies 
what  I  think  of  Miss  Julia  Prior.  If  they  knew  you 
as  I  know  you,  O  Julia  Prior,  what  a  short  reign  yours 
would  be ! 

Miss  P. — I  have  to  manage  them  a  little.  Each  sep- 
arately it  is  not  so  difficult.  But  when  they  are  to- 
gether, oh,  it  is  very  hard  sometimes. 

Enter  Milliken  dressed,  shakes  hands  with  Miss  P. 

MiLLiKEN. — Miss   Prior!  are  you  well?     Have  the 
children  been  good?  and  learned  all  their  lessons? 
Miss  P.  — The  children  are  pretty  good,  sir. 
Milliken.— Well,  that's  a  great  deal  as  times  go. 


408   THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 

Do  not  bother  them  with  too  much  learnmg,  Miss  Prior. 
Let  them  have  an  easy  life.  Time  enough  for  trouble 
when  age  comes. 

Enter  John. 

John. — Dinner,  sir.     [And  eocit.^ 

MiLLiKEN.— Dinner,  ladies.  My  Lady  Kicklebury 
{gives  arm  to  Lady  K.). 

Lady  K.— My  dear  Horace,  you  sJiouldnt  shake 
hands  with  Miss  Prior.  You  should  keep  people  of 
that  class  at  a  distance,  my  dear  creature.  [They  go 
in  to  dinner.  Captain  Touchit  following  with  Mrs. 
BoNNiNGTON.  As  they  go  out,  enter  Mary  with  chil- 
dreiis  tea-tray,  &^c.,  children  following,  and  after  them 
Mrs.  Prior.     Mary  gives  her  tea.'] 

Mrs.  Prior.  — Thank  you,  Mary!  You  are  so  very 
kind!     Oh,  what  delicious  tea! 

Georgy.  — I  say,  Mrs.  Prior,  I  dare  say  you  would 
like  to  dine  best,  wouldn't  you? 

Mrs.  p. — Bless  you,  my  darling  love,  I  had  my  din- 
ner at  one  o'clock  with  my  children  at  home. 

Georgy.  — So  had  we:  but  we  go  in  to  dessert  very 
often;  and  then  don't  we  have  cakes  and  oranges  and 
candied-peel  and  macaroons  and  things!  We  are  not 
to  go  in  to-day;  because  Bella  ate  so  many  strawberries 
she  made  herself  ill. 

Bella. — So  did  you. 

Georgy.  — I'm  a  man,  and  men  eat  more  than  women, 
twice  as  much  as  women.  When  I'm  a  man  I'll  eat  as 
much  cake  as  ever  I  like.  I  say,  Mary,  give  us  the 
marmalade. 

Mrs.  p.  — Oh,  what  nice  marmalade!  I  know  of 
some  poor  children — 


THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB      409 

Miss  P.— Mamma!  don't,  mamma  [m  an  imploring 
tone~\. 

Mrs.  p. — I  know  of  two  poor  children  at  home,  who 
have  very  seldom  nice  marmalade  and  cake,  young 
people. 

George. — You  mean  Adolphus  and  Frederick  and 
Amelia,  j^our  children.  Well,  they  shall  have  marma- 
lade and  cake. 

Bella. — Oh,  yes!     I'll  give  them  mine. 

Mrs.  p. — Darling,  dearest  child! 

George  (his  mouth  full).  —  I  won't  give  'em  mine: 
but  they  can  have  another  pot,  you  know.  You  have 
always  got  a  basket  with  you,  Mrs.  Prior.  I  know  you 
have.     You  had  it  that  day  you  took  the  cold  fowl. 

Mrs.  p.— For  the  poor  blind  black  man!  oh,  how 
thankful  he  was! 

George. — I  don't  know  whether  it  was  for  a  black 
man.     Mary,  get  us  another  pot  of  marmalade. 

Mary.— I  don't  know,  Master  George. 

George.  — I  will  have  another  pot  of  marmalade.  If 
you  don't,  I'll— I'll  smash  everj^thing— I  will. 

Bella. — Oh,  you  navighty,  rude  boy! 

George. — Hold  ?/owr  tongue !  I  w^7Z  have  it.  Mary 
shall  go  and  get  it. 

Mrs.  p. — Do  humour  him,  Mary;  and  I'm  sure  my 
poor  children  at  home  will  be  the  better  for  it. 

George. — There's  your  basket!  now  put  this  cake  in, 
and  this  pat  of  butter,  and  this  sugar.  Hurray,  hurray! 
Oh,  what  jolly  fun!  Tell  Adolphus  and  Amelia  I  sent 
it  to  them — tell  'em  they  shall  never  want  for  anything 
as  long  as  George  Kicklebury  Milliken,  Esq.,  can  give 
it  'em.  Did  Adolphus  like  my  grey  coat  that  I  didn't 
want? 


410      THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 

Miss  P. — You  did  not  give  him  your  new  grey  coat? 

George.— Don't  you  speak  to  me;  I'm  going  to 
school— I'm  not  going  to  have  no  more  governesses  soon. 

Mrs.  p. — Oh,  my  dear  Master  George,  what  a  nice 
coat  it  is,  and  how  well  my  poor  boy  looked  in  it! 

Miss  P.— Don't,  mammal  I  pray  and  entreat  you 
not  to  take  the  things! 

Enter  John  froin  dining-room  with  a  tray. 

John.  —  Some  cream,  some  jelly,  a  little  champagne, 
Miss  Prior ;  I  thought  you  might  like  some. 

George.— Oh,  jolly!  give  us  hold  of  the  jelly!  give 
us  a  glass  of  champagne. 

John. — I  will  not  give  you  any. 

George. — I'll  smash  every  glass  in  the  room  if  you 
don't;  I'll  cut  my  fingers;  I'll  poison  myself — there! 
I'll  eat  all  this  sealing-wax  if  you  don't,  and  it's  rank 
poison,  you  know  it  is. 

Mrs.  p.— My  dear  Master  George!     [Eojit  John.] 

George. — Ha,  ha!  I  knew  you'd  give  it  me;  another 
boy  taught  me  that. 

Bella. — And  a  very  naughty,  rude  boy. 

George.— He,  he,  he!  hold  your  tongue.  Miss!  And 
said  he  always  got  wine  so ;  and  so  I  used  to  do  it  to  my 
poor  maimna,  Mrs.  Prior.  Usedn't  to  like  mamma 
much. 

Bella. — Oh,  you  wicked  boy! 

Georgy. — She  usedn't  to  see  us  much.  She  used  to 
say  I  tried  her  nerves:  what's  nerves,  Mrs.  Prior?  Give 
us  some  more  champagne!  Will  have  it.  Ha,  ha,  ha! 
ain't  it  jolly?  Now  I'll  go  out  and  have  a  run  in  the 
garden.     [Ru7is  into  garden.'] 

Mrs.  p.— And  you,  my  dear? 


THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB      411 

Bella.— I  shall  go  and  resume  the  perusal  of  the 
"  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  which  my  grandpapa,  Mr.  Bon- 
nington,  sent  me.     [Exit  Arabella.] 

Miss  P.— How  those  children  are  spoilt!  Goodness, 
what  can  I  do?  If  I  correct  one,  he  flies  to  grand- 
mamma Kicklebury;  if  I  speak  to  another,  she  appeals 
to  grandmamma  Bonnington.  When  I  was  alone  with 
them,  I  had  them  in  something  like  order.  Now,  be- 
tween the  one  grandmother  and  the  other,  the  children 
are  going  to  ruin,  and  so  would  the  house  too,  but  that 
Howell — that  odd,  rude,  but  honest  and  intelligent  crea- 
ture, I  must  say — keeps  it  up.  It  is  wonderful  how  a 
person  in  his  rank  of  life  should  have  instructed  himself 
so.  He  really  knows — I  really  think  he  knows  more 
than  I  do  myself. 

Mrs.  p.— Julia  dear! 

Miss  P.— What  is  it,  mamma? 

Mrs.  p. — Your  little  sister  wants  some  under-cloth- 
ing sadly,  Julia  dear,  and  poor  Adolphus's  shoes  are 
quite  worn  out. 

^Iiss  P.— I  thought  so;  I  have  given  you  all  I  could, 
mamma. 

Mrs.  p.— Yes,  my  love!  you  are  a  good  love,  and 
generous,  heaven  knows,  to  your  poor  old  mother  who 
has  seen  better  days.  If  we  had  not  wanted,  would  I 
have  ever  allowed  you  to  be  a  governess — a  poor  de- 
graded governess?  If  that  brute  O'Reilly  who  lived 
on  our  second  floor  had  not  behaved  so  shamefully 
wicked  to  you,  and  married  Miss  Flack,  the  singer, 
might  you  not  have  been  Editress  of  the  Champion  of 
Liberty  at  this  very  moment,  and  had  your  Opera  box 
every  night?  [She  drinks  chmnimgne  while  talking^ 
and  excites  herself. 1 


412      THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 

Miss  P.— Don't  take  that,  mamma. 

Mrs.  p.— Don't  take  it?  why,  it  costs  nothing;  Mil- 
liken  can  afford  it.  Do  you  suppose  I  get  champagne 
every  day?  I  might  have  had  it  as  a  girl  when  I  first 
married  your  father,  and  we  kep'  our  gig  and  horse,  and 
lived  at  Clapham,  and  had  the  best  of  everything.  But 
the  coal-trade  is  not  what  it  was,  Julia.  We  met  with 
misfortunes,  Julia,  and  we  went  into  poverty:  and  your 
poor  father  went  into  the  Bench  for  twenty-three 
months — two  year  all  but  a  month  he  did — and  my  poor 
girl  was  obliged  to  dance  at  the  "  Coburg  Theatre" — 
yes,  you  were,  at  ten  shillings  a  week,  in  the  Oriental 
ballet  of  "The  Bulbul  and  the  Rose:"  you  were,  my 
poor  darling  child. 

Miss  P. — Hush,  hush,  mamma! 

Mrs.  p.— And  we  kep'  a  lodging-house  in  Bury 
Street,  St.  James's,  which  your  father's  brother  fur- 
nished for  us,  who  was  an  extensive  oil-merchant.  He 
brought  you  up ;  and  afterwards  he  quarrelled  with  my 
poor  James,  Robert  Prior  did,  and  he  died,  not  leaving 
us  a  shilling.  And  my  dear  eldest  boy  went  into  a  wine- 
merchant's  office:  and  my  poor  darling  Julia  became  a 
governess,  when  you  had  had  the  best  of  education  at 
Clapham ;  you  had,  Julia.  And  to  think  that  you  were 
obliged,  my  blessed  thing,  to  go  on  in  the  Oriental  ballet 
of  "  The  Rose  and  the  Bui—" 

Miss  P. — Mamma,  hush,  hush!  forget  that  story. 

Enter  Page  from  dining-room. 

Page. — Miss  Prior!  please,  the  ladies  are  coming 
from  the  dining-room.  Mrs.  B.  have  had  her  two 
glasses  of  port,  and  her  ladyship  is  now  a-telling  the 


THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB      413 

story  about  the  Prince  of  Wales  when  she  danced  with 
him  at  Carlton  House.     [Emt  Page.] 

Miss  P.— Quick,  quick!  There,  take  your  basket! 
Put  on  your  bonnet,  and  good-night,  mamma.  Here, 
here  is  a  half-sovereign  and  three  shillings;  it  is  all  the 
money  I  have  in  the  world;  take  it,  and  buy  the  shoes 
for  Adolphus. 

Mrs.  p.— And  the  under-clothing,  my  love— little 
Amelia's  under-clothing? 

Miss  P.— We  will  see  about  it.  Good-night  [kisses 
her].     Don't  be  seen  here,— Lady  K.  doesn't  like  it. 

Enter  Gentlemen  and  Ladies  from  dining-room. 

Lady  K.— We  follow  the  Continental  fashion.  We 
don't  sit  after  dinner.  Captain  Touchit. 

Captain  T.— Confound  the  Continental  fashion!  I 
like  to  sit  a  little  while  after  dinner  \_aside~\. 

Mrs.  B.— So  does  my  dear  Mr.  Bonnington,  Captain 
Touchit.     He  likes  a  little  port-wine  after  dinner. 

Touchit. — I'm  not  surprised  at  it,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  B.— When  did  you  say  your  son  was  coming. 
Lady  Kicklebury? 

L^VDY  K.— My  Clarence!  He  will  be  here  immedi- 
ately, I  hope,  the  dear  boy.     You  know  my  Clarence? 

Touchit.— Yes,  ma'am. 

Lady  K.— And  like  him,  I'm  sure,  Captain  Touchit! 
Everybody  does  like  Clarence  Kicklebury. 

Touchit.  — The  confounded  young  scamp!  I  say, 
Horace,  do  you  like  your  brother-in-law? 

MiLLiKEN.— Well— I— I  can't  say— I— like  him — in 
fact,  I  don't.  But  that's  no  reason  why  his  mother 
shouldn't.  [During  this,  Howell^  preceded  by  Bulke- 


414      THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 

LEY,  hands  round  coffee.  The  garden  without  has 
darkened,  as  if  evening.  Bulkeley  is  going  away 
without  offering  coffee  to  Miss  Prior.  John  stamps 
on  his  foot,  and  points  to  her.  Captain  Touchit, 
laughing,  goes  up  and  talks  to  her  now  the  servants  are 
gone.~\ 

Mrs.  B.— Horace!  I  must  tell  you  that  the  waste  at 
your  table  is  shocking.  What  is  the  need  of  opening  all 
this  wine?  You  and  Lady  Kicklebury  were  the  only 
persons  who  took  champagne. 

Touchit.  — I  never  drink  it— never  touch  the  rub- 
bish!    Too  old  a  stager! 

Lady  K.— Port,  I  think,  is  your  favourite,  Mrs. 
Bonnington? 

Mrs.  B.— My  dear  lady,  I  do  not  mean  that  j^ou 
should  not  have  champagne,  if  you  like.  Pray,  pray, 
don't  be  angry!  But  why  on  earth,  for  you,  who  take 
so  little,  and  Horace,  who  only  drinks  it  to  keep  you 
company,  should  not  Howell  open  a  pint  instead  of  a 
great  large  bottle? 

Lady  K.  — Oh,  Howell!  Howell!  We  must  not  men- 
tion Howell,  my  dear  Mrs.  Bonnington.  Howell  is 
faultless !  Howell  has  the  keys  of  everything !  Howell 
is  not  to  be  controlled  in  anything!  Howell  is  to  be  at 
liberty  to  be  rude  to  my  servant! 

MiLLiKEN.— Is  that  all?  I  am  sure  I  should  have 
thought  5^our  man  was  big  enough  to  resent  any  rude- 
ness from  poor  little  Howell. 

Lady  K.— Horace!  Excuse  me  for  saying  that  you 
don't  know— the— the  class  of  servant  to  whom  Bulke- 
ley belongs.  I  had  him,  as  a  great  favour,  from  Lord 
Toddleby.  That  class  of  servant  is  accustomed  gener- 
ally not  to  go  out  single. 


THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB      415 

MiLLiKEN.— Unless  they  are  two  behind  a  carriage- 
perch  they  pine  away,  as  one  love-bird  does  without  his 
mate! 

Lady  K.— No  doubt!  no  doubt!  I  only  say  you  are 
not  accustomed  here — in  this  kind  of  establishment,  you 
understand — to  that  class  of — 

Mrs.  B. — Lady  Kicklebury!  is  my  son's  establish- 
ment not  good  enough  for  any  powdered  monster  in 
England?    Is  the  house  of  a  British  merchant—? 

Lady  K.— My  dear  creature!  my  dear  creature!  it  is 
the  house  of  a  British  merchant,  and  a  very  comfortable 
house. 

Mrs.  B.—Yes,  as  you  find  it. 

Lady  K.— Yes,  as  I  find  it,  when  I  come  to  take  care 
of  my  departed  angel's  children,  INIrs.  Bonnington— 
[pointing  to  picture']— oi  that  dear  seraph's  orphans, 
Mrs.  Bonnington.  You  cannot.  You  have  other  duties 
— other  children— a  husband  at  home  in  delicate  health, 
who— 

Mrs.  B.— Lady  Kicklebury,  no  one  shall  say  I  don't 
take  care  of  my  dear  husband! 

MiLLiKEN.— My  dear  mother!  My  dear  Lady 
Kicklebury!  [To  T.,  who  has  come  forward.']  They 
spar  so  every  night  they  meet,  Touchit.    Ain't  it  hard? 

Lady  K.— I  say  you  do  take  care  of  Mr.  Bonnington, 
Mrs.  Bonnington,  my  dear  creature!  and  that  is  why  you 
can't  attend  to  Horace.  And  as  he  is  of  a  ver}^  easy 
temper— except  sometimes  with  his  poor  Arabella's 
mother— he  allows  all  his  tradesmen  to  cheat  him,  all 
his  servants  to  cheat  him,  Howell  to  be  rude  to  every- 
body—to me  amongst  other  people,  and  why  not  to  my 
servant  Bulkeley,  with  whom  Lord  Toddleby's  groom 
of  the  chambers  gave  me  the  very  highest  character. 


416      THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 

Mrs.  B.— I'm  surprised  that  noblemen  have  grooms 
in  their  chambers.  I  should  think  they  were  much  bet- 
ter in  the  stables.  I  am  sure  I  always  think  so  when  we 
dine  with  Doctor  Clinker.  His  man  does  bring  such  a 
smell  of  the  stable  with  him. 

Lady  K.  —  He !  he !  you  mistake,  my  dearest  creature ! 
Your  poor  mother  mistakes,  my  good  Horace.  You 
have  lived  in  a  quiet  and  most  respectable  sphere — but 
not— not — 

Mrs.  B.— Not  what.  Lady  Kicklebury?  We  have 
lived  at  Richmond  twenty  years— in  my  late  husband's 
time — when  we  saw  a  great  deal  of  company,  and  when 
this  dear  Horace  was  a  dear  boy  at  Westminster  School. 
And  we  have  paid  for  everything  we  have  had  for 
twenty  years,  and  we  have  owed  not  a  penny  to  any 
tradesman,  though  we  mayn't  have  had  powdered  foot- 
men six  feet  high,  who  were  impertinent  to  all  the  maids 
in  the  place — Don't!  I  will  speak,  Horace — but  ser- 
vants who  loved  us,  and  who  lived  in  our  families. 

MiLLTKEN.— Mamma,  now,  my  dear,  good  old 
mother!    I  am  sure  Lady  Kicklebury  meant  no  harm. 

Lady  K. — Me!  my  dear  Horace!  harm!  What  harm 
could  I  mean? 

MiLLiKEN. — Come!  let  us  have  a  game  at  whist. 
Touchit,  will  you  make  a  fourth?  They  go  on  so  every 
night  almost.    Ain't  it  a  pity,  now? 

Touchit.— Miss  Prior  generally  plays,  doesn't  she? 

MiLLiKEN. — And  a  very  good  player,  too.  But  I 
thought  you  might  like  it. 

Touchit. — Well,  not  exactly.  I  don't  like  sixpenny 
points,  Horace,  or  quarrelling  with  old  dragons  about 
the  odd  trick.  I  will  go  and  smoke  a  cigar  on  the  ter- 
race, and  contemplate  the  silver  Thames,  the  darkling 


THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB      417 

woods,  the  starry  hosts  of  heaven.  I— I  like  smoking 
better  than  playing  whist.     [Milliken  rings  bell.] 

MiLLiKEN.— Ah,  George!  you're  not  fit  for  domestic 
felicity. 

ToucHiT.— No,  not  exactly. 

Howell  enters. 

Milliken.— Lights  and  a  whist-table.  Oh,  I  see 
you  bring  'em.  You  know  everything  I  want.  He 
knows  everything  I  want,  Howell  does.  Let  us  cut. 
Miss  Prior,  j^ou  and  I  are  partners! 


ACT  II. 

Scene.— ^s  before. 

Lady  K. — Don't  smoke,  you  naughty  boy.  I  don't 
like  it.  Besides  it  will  encourage  your  brother-in-law  to 
smoke. 

Clarence  K. — Anything  to  oblige  you,  I'm  sure. 
But  can't  do  without  it,  mother ;  it's  good  for  my  health. 
When  I  was  in  the  plungers,  our  doctor  used  to  say, 
*'  You  ought  never  to  smoke  more  than  eight  cigars 
a  day" — an  order,  you  know,  to  do  it — don't  you  see? 

Lady  K. — Ah,  my  child!  I  am  very  glad  you  are  not 
with  those  unfortunate  people  in  the  East. 

K.  — So  am  I.  Sold  out  just  in  time.  Much  better 
fun  being  here,  than  having  the  cholera  at  Scutari. 
Nice  house,  Milliken's.  Snob,  but  good  fellow — good 
cellar,  doosid  good  cook.  Really,  that  salmi  yesterday, — 
couldn't  have  it  better  done  at  the  "  Rag  "  now.  You 
have  got  into  good  quarters  here,  mother. 

Lady  K. — The  meals  are  very  good,  and  the  house  is 
very  good ;  the  manners  are  not  of  the  first  order.  But 
what  can  you  expect  of  city  people?  I  always  told  your 
poor  dear  sister,  when  she  married  Mr.  Milliken,  that 
she  might  look  for  everything  substantial, — but  not 
manners.    Poor  dear  Arabella  would  marry  him. 

K.— Would!  that  is  a  good  one,  mamma!  Why,  you 
made  her!  It's  a  dozen  years  ago.  But  I  recollect, 
when  I  came  home  from  Eton,  seeing  her  crying  be- 
cause Charley  Tufton — 

418 


THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB      419 

Lady  K. — Mr.  Tiifton  had  not  a  shilling  to  bless 
himself  with.  The  marriage  was  absurd  and  impos- 
sible. 

K. — He  hadn't  a  shilling  then.  I  guess  he  has  plenty 
now.  Elder  brother  killed,  out  hunting.  Father  dead. 
Tuf  a  baronet,  with  four  thousand  a  year  if  he's  a  shil- 
ling. 

Lady  K.— Not  so  much. 

K. — Four  thousand  if  it's  a  shilling.  Why,  the  prop- 
erty adjoins  Kicklebury's — I  ought  to  know.  I've  shot 
over  it  a  thousand  times.  Heh!  /  remember,  when  I 
was  quite  a  young  'un,  how  Arabella  used  to  go  out  into 
Tuf  ton  Park  to  meet  Charley — and  he  is  a  doosid  good 
fellow,  and  a  gentlemanlike  fellow,  and  a  doosid  deal 
better  than  this  city  fellow. 

Lady  K.— If  you  don't  like  this  city  fellow,  Clar- 
ence, why  do  you  come  here?  why  didn't  you  stop  with 
your  elder  brother  at  Kicklebury? 

K.— Why  didn't  I?  Why  didn't  you  stop  at  Kickle- 
bur}^  mamma?  Because  you  had  notice  to  quit.  Serious 
daughter-in-law,  quarrels  about  management  of  the 
house — row  in  the  building.  My  brother  interferes, 
and  jDolitely  requests  mamma  to  shorten  her  visit. 
So  it  is  with  your  other  two  daughters;  so  it  was  with 
Arabella  when  she  was  alive.  What  shindies  you  used  to 
have  with  her.  Lady  Kicklebury!  Heh!  I  had  a  row 
with  my  brother  and  sister  about  a  confounded  little 
nursery-maid. 

Lady  K.— Clarence! 

K. — And  so  I  had  notice  to  quit  too.  And  I'm  in 
verj^  good  quarters  here,  and  I  intend  to  stay  in  'em, 
mamma.    I  say — 

Lady  K.— What  do  you  say? 


420      THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 

K. — Since  I  sold  out,  you  know,  and  the  regiment 
went  abroad,  confound  me,  the  brutes  at  the  "  Rag  "  will 
hardly  speak  to  me!  I  was  so  ill,  I  couldn't  go.  Who 
the  doose  can  live  the  life  I've  led  and  keep  health 
enough  for  that  infernal  Crimea?  Besides,  how  could  I 
lielp  it?  I  was  so  cursedly  in  debt  that  I  was  obliged 
to  have  the  money,  you  know.     You  hadn't  got  any. 

Lady  K.— Not  a  halfpenny,  my  darling.  I  am 
dreadfully  in  debt  myself. 

K.  —  I  know  5^ou  are.  So  am  I.  INIy  brother  wouldn't 
give  me  any,  not  a  dump.  Hang  him!  Said  he  had  his 
children  to  look  to.  JNIilliken  wouldn't  advance  me  any 
more— said  I  did  him  in  that  horse  transaction.  He! 
he!  he!  so  I  did!  What  had  I  to  do  but  to  sell  out? 
And  the  fellows  cut  me,  by  Jove.  Ain't  it  too  bad?  I'll 
take  my  name  oif  the  "  Rag,"  I  will,  though. 

Lady  K.— We  must  sow  our  wild  oats,  and  we  must 
sober  down;  and  we  must  live  here,  where  the  living  is 
very  good  and  very  cheap,  Clarence,  you  naughty  boy! 
And  we  must  get  you  a  rich  wife.  Did  you  see  at 
church  yesterday  that  young  woman  in  light  green,  with 
rather  red  hair  and  a  pink  bonnet? 

K. — I  was  asleep,  ma'am,  most  of  the  time,  or  I  was 
bookin'  up  the  odds  for  the  Chester  Cup.  When  I'm 
bookin'  up,  I  think  of  nothin'  else,  ma'am,— nothin'. 

Lady  K.— That  was  Miss  Brocksopp— Briggs, 
Brown  ancl  Brocksopp,  the  great  sugar-bakers.  They 
say  she  will  have  eighty  thousand  pound.  We  will  ask 
her  to  dinner  here. 

K.— I  say— why  the  doose  do  you  have  such  old 
women  to  dinner  here  ?  Why  don't  you  get  some  prett)^ 
girls?  Such  a  set  of  confounded  old  frumps  as  eat  Mil- 
liken's  mutton  I  never  saw.     There's  you,  and  his  old 


THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB      421 

mother  INIrs.  Bonnington,  and  old  Mrs.  Fogram,  and 
old  ^liss  What's-her-name,  the  woman  with  the  squint 
eye,  and  that  immense  ISlrs.  Crowder.  It's  so  stoopid, 
that  if  it  weren't  for  Touchit  coming  down  sometimes, 
and  the  billiards  and  boatin',  I  should  die  here — expire, 
by  gad!  Why  don't  you  have  some  pretty  women  into 
the  house,  Lady  Kicklebury? 

L^iDY  K. — Why!  Do  you  think  I  want  that  picture 
taken  down:  and  another  IMrs.  Milliken?  Wisehead! 
If  Horace  married  again,  would  he  be  your  banker, 
and  keep  this  house,  now  that  ungrateful  son  of  mine 
has  turned  me  out  of  his  ?  No  pretty  woman  shall  come 
into  the  house  whilst  I  am  here. 

K.  —  Governess  seems  a  pretty  woman:  weak  eyes,  bad 
figure,  poky,  badly  dressed,  but  doosid  pretty  woman. 

Lady  K.  —  Bah!  There  is  no  danger  from  her.  She 
is  a  most  faithful  creature,  attached  to  me  beyond  every- 
thing. And  her  eyes — her  ej^es  are  weak  with  crying 
for  some  young  man  who  is  in  India.  She  has  his 
miniature  in  her  room,  locked  up  in  one  of  her  drawers. 

K.  —  Then  how  the  doose  did  you  come  to  see  it? 

Lady  K.— We  see  a  number  of  things,  Clarence. 
Will  you  drive  with  me? 

K. — Not  as  I  knows  on,  thank  you.  No,  Ma;  drivin's 
too  slow:  and  you're  goin'  to  call  on  two  or  three  old 
dowagers  in  the  Park?  Thank  your  ladyship  for  the 
delightful  offer. 

Enter  John. 

John.— Please,  sir,  here's  the  man  with  the  bill  for 
the  boats;  two  pound  three. 

K. — Damn  it,  pay  it — don't  bother  me! 
John.— Haven't  got  the  money,  sir. 


422      THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 

L^vDY  K.— Howell!  I  saw  Mr.  Milliken  give  you  a 
cheque  for  twenty-five  pounds  before  he  went  into  town 
this  morning.  Look,  sir  Iruns,  opens  dratcer,  takes  out 
clieque-hook^.     There  it  is,  marked,  "Howell,  251." 

John. — Would  your  ladyship  like  to  step  down  into 
my  pantry  and  see  what  I've  paid  with  the  twenty-five 
pounds?  Did  my  master  leave  any  orders  that  your 
ladyship  was  to  inspect  my  accounts? 

Lady  K.  —  Step  down  into  the  pantry!  inspect  your 
accounts?  I  never  heard  such  impertinence.  What  do 
you  mean,  sir? 

K. — Dammy,  sir,  what  do  you  mean? 

John. — I  thought  as  her  ladyship  kept  a  heye  over 
my  master's  private  book,  she  might  like  to  look  at  mine 
too. 

Lady  K. — Upon  my  word,  this  insolence  is  too  much. 

John. — I  beg  your  ladyship's  pardon.  I  am  sure  I 
have  said  nothing. 

K.  —  Said,  sir!  your  manner  is  mutinous,  by  Jove, 
sir!  if  I  had  you  in  the  regiment! — 

John. — I  understood  that  you  had  left  the  regiment, 
sir,  just  before  it  went  on  the  campaign,  sir. 

K.  — Confound  you,  sir!    [Starts  ujJ.I 

Lady  K. — Clarence,  my  child,  my  child! 

John. — Your  ladyship  needn't  be  alarmed;  I'm  a 
little  man,  my  lady,  but  I  don't  think  Mr.  Clarence  was 
a-goin'  for  to  hit  me,  my  lad}^;  not  before  a  lady,  I'm 
sure.    I  suppose,  sir,  that  you  wont  pay  the  boatman? 

K. — No,  sir,  I  won't  pay  him,  nor  any  man  who  uses 
this  sort  of  damned  impertinence! 

John. — I  told  Rullocks,  sir,  I  thought  it  was  jest 
possible  you  wouldn't.     [Exit.~\ 

K.— That's  a  nice  man,  that  is — an  impudent  villain! 


THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB      423 

Lady  K.— Ruined  by  Horace's  weakness.  He  ruins 
everybody,  poor  good-natured  Horace! 

K.— Why  don't  you  get  rid  of  the  blackguard? 

L^VDY  K. — There  is  a  time  for  all  things,  my  dear. 
This  man  is  very  convenient  to  Horace.  jNIr.  Milliken 
is  exceedingly  lazy,  and  Howell  spares  him  a  great  deal 
of  trouble.  Some  day  or  other  I  shall  take  all  this 
domestic  trouble  off  his  hands.  But  not  yet :  your  poor 
brother-in-law  is  restive,  like  many  weak  men.  He  is 
subjected  to  other  influences:  his  odious  mother  thwarts 
me  a  great  deal. 

K. — Why,  you  used  to  be  the  dearest  friends  in  the 
world.    I  recollect  when  I  was  at  Eton — 

Lady  K. — Were;  but  friendship  don't  last  for  ever. 
JNIrs.  Bonnington  and  I  have  had  serious  differences 
since  I  came  to  live  here:  she  has  a  natural  jealousy, 
perhaps,  at  my  superintending  her  son's  affairs.  When 
she  ceases  to  visit  at  the  house,  as  she  very  possibl}^  will, 
things  will  go  more  easily ;  and  Mr.  Howell  will  go  too, 
you  may  depend  upon  it.  I  am  always  sorry  when  my 
temper  breaks  out,  as  it  will  sometimes. 

K.— Won't  it,  that's  all! 

Lady  K. — At  his  insolence,  mj^  temper  is  high;  so 
is  yours,  my  dear.  Calm  it  for  the  present,  especially 
as  regards  Howell. 

K. — Gad!  d'you  know  I  was  very  nearly  pitching 
into  him?  But  once,  one  night  in  the  Haymarket,  at 
a  lobster-shop,  where  I  was  with  some  fellows,  we 
chaffed  some  other  fellows,  and  there  was  one  fellah 
— quite  a  little  fellah — and  I  pitched  into  him,  and  he 
gave  me  the  most  confounded  lickin'  I  ever  had  in  my 
life,  since  my  brother  Kicklebury  licked  me  when  we 
were  at  Eton;  and  that,  you  see,  was  a  lesson  to  me. 


42J*      THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 

ma'am.  Never  trust  those  little  fellows,  never  chaff 
'em:  dammy,  they  may  be  boxers. 

Lady  K.— You  quarrelsome  boy!  I  remember  you 
coming  home  with  your  naughty  head  so  bruised. 
[LooJx's  at  watch.^  I  must  go  now  to  take  my  drive. 
[Eivit  Lady  K.] 

K.  — I  owe  a  doose  of  a  tick  at  that  billiard-room;  I 
shall  have  that  boatman  dunnin'  me.  Why  hasn't  Mil- 
liken  got  any  horses  to  ride?  Hang  him!  suppose  he 
can't  ride— suppose  he's  a  tailor.  He  ain't  my  tailor 
though,  though  I  owe  him  a  doosid  deal  of  money. 
There  goes  mamma  with  that  darling  nephew  and  niece 
of  mine.  [Enter  Bulkeley.]  Why  haven't  you  gone 
with  my  lady,  you,  sir?  [to  Bulkeley^. 

Bulkeley.— My  lady  have  a-took  the  pony-carriage, 
sir;  Mrs.  Bonnington  have  a-took  the  hopen  carriage 
and  'orses,  sir,  this  mornin',  which  the  Bishop  of  Lon- 
don is  'olding  a  confirmation  at  Teddington,  sir,  and 
Mr.  Bonnington  is  attending  the  serimony.  And  I  have 
told  Mr.  'Owell,  sir,  that  my  lady  would  prefer  the 
hopen  carriage,  sir,  which  I  like  the  hexercise  myself, 
sir,  and  that  the  pony-carriage  was  good  enough  for 
Mrs.  Bonnington,  sir;  and  Mr.  'Owell  was  very  hin- 
solent  to  me,  sir;  and  I  don't  think  I  can  stay  in  the 
'ouse  with  him. 

K.— Hold  your  jaw,  sir. 

Bulkeley.— Yes,  sir.    [Exit  Bulkeley.] 

K.— I  wonder  who  that  governess  is?— sang  rather 
prettily  last  night— wish  she'd  come  and  sing  now— 
wish  she'd  come  and  amuse  me— I've  seen  her  face  before 
—where  have  I  seen  her  face?— it  ain't  at  all  a  bad  one. 
What  shall  I  do?  dammy,  I'll  read  a  book:  I've  not  read 
a  book  this  ever  so  long.    What's  here?    [looks  amongst 


THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB      425 

books  J  selects  one,  sinks  down  in  easy  chair  so  as  quite 
to  be  lost]. 

Enter  Miss  Prior. 

Miss  Prior. — There's  peace  in  the  house!  those  noisy 
children  are  away  with  their  grandmainnia.  The 
weather  is  beautiful,  and  I  hope  they  will  take  a  long 
drive.  Now  I  can  have  a  quiet  half -hour,  and  finish 
that  dear  pretty  "Ruth"— oh,  how  it  makes  me  cry, 
that  pretty  story.  [Lays  down  her  bonnet  on  table- 
goes  to  glass— takes  off'  cap  and  spectacles— arranges 
her  hair— Clarence  has  got  on  chair  looking  at  her,~\ 

K. — By  Jove!  I  know  who  it  is  now!  Remember  her 
as  well  as  possible.  Four  j^ears  ago,  when  little  Fox- 
bury  used  to  dance  in  the  ballet  over  the  water.  Dont 
I  remember  her!  She  boxed  my  ears  behind  the  scenes, 
by  jingo.  [Corning  forward.]  Miss  Pemberton!  Star 
of  the  ballet !  Light  of  the  harem !  Don't  you  remember 
the  grand  Oriental  ballet  of  the  "  Bulbul  and  the  Peri? " 

Miss  P.— Oh!  [screams.]  No,  n— no,  sir.  You  are 
mistaken:  my  name  is  Prior.  I — never  was  at  the  "  Co- 
burg  Theatre."    I— 

K.  [seizing  her  /m/i^.]— No,  you  don't,  though! 
What !  don't  you  remember  well  that  little  hand  slapping 
this  face?  which  nature  hadn't  then  adorned  with  whis- 
kers, by  gad!  You  pretend  you  have  forgotten  little 
Foxbury,  whom  Charley  Calverley  used  to  come  after, 
and  who  used  to  drive  to  the  "  Coburg  "  every  night  in 
her  brougham.  How  did  you  know  it  was  the  "  Co- 
burg?"   That  is  a  good  one!    Had  you  there,  I  think. 

Miss  P.  —  Sir,  in  the  name  of  heaven,  pity  me!  I  have 
to  keep  my  mother  and  my  sisters  and  my  brothers. 
When— when  you  saw  me,  we  were  in  great  poverty; 


426      THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 

and  almost  all  the  wretched  earnings  I  made  at  that 
time  were  given  to  my  poor  father  then  lying  in  the 
Queen's  Bench  hard  by.  You  know  there  was  nothing 
against  my  character — you  know  there  w^as  not.  Ask 
Captain  Touchit  whether  I  was  not  a  good  girl.  It 
was  he  who  brought  me  to  this  house. 

K.— Touchit!  the  old  villain! 

Miss  P.  —  I  had  your  sister's  confidence.  I  tended 
her  abroad  on  her  death-bed.  I  have  brought  up  your 
nephew  and  niece.  Ask  any  one  if  I  have  not  been 
honest?  As  a  man,  as  a  gentleman,  I  entreat  you  to 
keep  my  secret !  I  implore  you  for  the  sake  of  my  poor 
mother  and  her  children!   \_kneeli71g.'] 

K. — By  Jove!  how  handsome  you  are!  How  crying 
becomes  your  eyes!  Get  uj);  get  up.  Of  course  I'll 
keep  your  secret,  but — 

Miss  P. — Ah!  ah!  [She  screams  as  he  tries  to  em- 
brace her.    Ho^wELL  rushes  in.~\ 

Howell. — Hands  off,  you  little  villain!  Stir  a  step, 
and  I'll  kill  you,  if  you  were  a  regiment  of  captains! 
What!  insult  this  lady  who  kept  watch  at  your  sister's 
death-bed  and  has  took  charge  of  her  children!  Don't 
be  frightened.  Miss  Prior.  Julia — dear,  dear  Julia — 
I'm  by  you.  If  the  scoundrel  touches  j^ou,  I'll  kill  him. 
I — I  love  you — there — it's  here — love  you  madly — with 
all  my  'art — my  a-heart! 

Miss  P. — Howell— for  heaven's  sake,  Howell! 

K. — Pooh— ooh!  [bursting  ttith  laughter^.  Here's 
a  novel,  by  jingo!  Here's  John  in  love  with  the  gov- 
erness. Fond  of  plush.  Miss  Pemberton— ey?  Gad, 
it's  the  best  thing  I  ever  knew.  Saved  a  good  bit,  ey, 
Jeames?  Take  a  public-house?  By  Jove!  I'll  buy  my 
beer  there. 


THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB      427 

John.  — Owe  for  it,  you  mean.  I  don't  think  your 
tradesmen  profit  much  by  your  custom,  ex-Cornet 
Kicklebury. 

K.— By  Jove!    I'll  do  for  you,  you  villain! 

John.— No,  not  that  way.  Captain.  [Struggles  tcith 
and  throws  him.~\ 

K.  [screams.~\ — Hallo,  Bulkeley!  [Bulkeley  is  seen 
strolling  in  the  garden."] 

Enter  Bulkeley. 

Bulkeley.— What  is  it,  sir? 

K. — Take  this  confounded  villain  oiF  me,  and  pitch 
him  into  the  Thames — do  you  hear? 

John. — Come  here,  and  I'll  break  every  bone  in  your 
hulking  body.    [To  Bulkeley.] 

Bulkeley. — Come,  come!  what  hever  his  hall  this 
year  row  about? 

Miss  P.— For  heaven's  sake,  don't  strike  that  poor 
man. 

Bulkeley. — You  be  quiet.  What's  he  a-hittin'  about 
my  master  for? 

John.— Take  off  your  hat,  sir,  when  you  speak  to  a 
lady.  [Takes  up  a  jwker.]  And  now  come  on  both  of 
you,  cowards!  [Rushes  at  Bulkeley  and  knocks  his 
hat  off  his  head.] 

Bulkeley  [stepping  back^.—lt  you'll  put  down 
that  there  poker,  you  know,  then  I'll  pitch  into  you  fast 
enough.     But  that  there  poker  ain't  fair,  you  know. 

K. — You  villain!  of  course  you  will  leave  this  house. 
And,  Miss  Prior,  I  think  you  understand  that  you  will 
go  too.  I  don't  think  my  niece  wants  to  learn  dancin, 
you  understand.  Good-by.  Here,  Bulkeley!  [Gets 
behind  footman  and  exit.] 


428   THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 

Miss  P.— Do  j^ou  know  the  meaning  of  that  threat, 
Mr.  Howell? 

John.— Yes,  Miss  Prior. 

Miss  P. — I  was  a  dancer  once,  for  three  months,  four 
years  ago,  when  my  poor  father  was  in  prison. 

John. — Yes,  Miss  Prior,  I  knew  it.  And  I  saw  yon 
a  many  times. 

Miss  P. — And  you  kept  my  secret? 

John. — Yes,  Ju— Jul— Miss  Prior. 

Miss  P. — Thank  you,  and  God  bless  you,  John 
Howell.  There,  there.  You  mustn't!  indeed,  j^ou 
mustn't ! 

John. — You  don't  remember  the  printer's  boy  who 
used  to  come  to  ]Mr.  O'Reilly,  and  sit  in  j^our  'all  in  Bury 
Street,  Miss  Prior?  I  was  that  boy.  I  was  a  country- 
bred  boy — that  is  if  you  call  Putney  country,  and 
Wimbledon  Common  and  that.  I  served  the  Milliken 
family  seven  year.  I  went  with  Master  Horace  to  col- 
lege, and  then  I  revolted  against  service,  and  I  thought 
I'd  be  a  man  and  turn  printer  like  Doctor  Frankling. 
And  I  got  in  an  office:  and  I  went  with  proofs  to  Mr. 
O'Reilly,  and  I  saw  you.  And  though  I  might  have 
been  in  love  with  somebody  else  before  I  did — yet  it 
was  all  hup  when  I  saw  you. 

Miss  P.  [ki ?idly~\.— You  must  not  talk  to  me  in 
that  way,  John  PI o well. 

John. — Let's  tell  the  tale  out.  I  couldn't  stand  the 
newspaper  night-work.  I  had  a  mother  and  brothers 
and  sisters  to  keep,  as  you  had.  I  went  back  to  Horace 
INIilliken  and  said,  Sir,  I've  lost  my  work.  I  and  mine 
want  bread.  Will  you  take  me  back  again?  And  he 
did.    He's  a  kind,  kind  soul  is  my  master. 

Miss  P.— He  is  a  kind,  kind  soul. 


THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB      429 

John.— He's  good  to  all  the  poor.  His  hand's  in  his 
pocket  for  everj^body.  Everybody  takes  advantage  of 
him.  His  mother-in-lor  rides  over  him.  So  does  his 
Ma.  So  do  I,  I  may  say;  but  that's  over  now;  and  you 
and  I  have  had  our  notice  to  quit,  ^liss,  I  should  say. 

Miss  P.— Yes. 

John.— I  have  saved  a  bit  of  money— not  much— a 
hundred  pound.  JNIiss  Prior— Julia— here  I  am— look 
—  I'm  a  poor  feller— a  poor  servant— but  I've  the  heart 
of  a  man— and— I  love  you— oh!  I  love  you! 

Mary.  — Oh— ho— ho!  [Mary  has  entered  from  gar- 
den^ and  hursts  out  crying.'] 

Miss  P.— It  can't  be,  John  Howell— my  dear,  brave, 
kind  John  Howell.  It  can't  be.  I  have  watched  this 
for  some  time  past,  and  poor  Clary's  despair  here. 
[Kisses  Mary,  wJio  cries  plentifully.']  You  have  the 
heart  of  a  true,  brave  man,  and  must  show  it  and  prove 
it  now.  I  am  not— am  not  of  your— pardon  me  for 
saying  so— of  your  class  in  life.  I  was  bred  by  my 
uncle,  away  from  my  poor  parents,  though  I  came  back 
to  them  after  his  sudden  death ;  and  to  poverty,  and  to 
this  dependent  life  I  am  now  leading.  I  am  a  servant, 
like  you,  John,  but  in  another  sphere— have  to  seek  an- 
other place  now;  and  heaven  knows  if  I  shall  procure 
one,  now  that  that  unlucky  passage  in  my  life  is  known. 
Oh,  the  coward  to  recall  it!  the  coward! 

Mary.— But  John  whopped  him,  ^liss!  that  he  did. 
He  gave  it  him  well,  John  did.     [Crying.] 

Miss  P.— You  can't— you  ought  not  to  forego  an  at- 
tachment like  that,  John  Howell.  A  more  honest  and 
true-hearted  creature  never  breathed  than  Mary  Bar- 
low. 

John.— No,  indeed. 


430      THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 

Miss  P.  —  She  has  loved  you  since  she  was  a  httle 
child.    And  you  loved  her  once,  and  do  now,  John. 

Mary.— Oh,  Miss!  j^ou  hare  a  hangel,— I  hallways 
said  you  were  a  hangel. 

Miss  P. — You  are  better  than  I  am,  my  dear — much, 
much  better  than  I  am,  John.  The  curse  of  my  pov- 
erty has  been  that  I  have  had  to  flatter  and  to  dissemble, 
and  hide  the  faults  of  those  I  wanted  to  help,  and  to 
smile  when  I  was  hurt,  and  laugh  when  I  was  sad,  and 
to  coax,  and  to  tack,  and  to  bide  my  time, — not  with 
Mr.  Milliken:  he  is  all  honour,  and  kindness,  and  sim- 
plicity. Who  did  he  ever  injure,  or  what  unkind  word 
did  he  ever  say?  But  do  you  think,  with  the  jealousy 
of  those  poor  ladies  over  his  house,  I  could  have  stayed 
here  without  being  a  hypocrite  to  both  of  them?  Go, 
John.  My  good,  dear  friend,  John  Howell,  marry 
Mary.  You'll  be  happier  with  her  than  with  me.  There ! 
There!    [They  embrace.'] 

Mary.  — O— o— o!  I  think  I'll  go  and  hiron  hout  Miss 
Harabella's  frocks  now.    [Exit  Mary.] 

Enter  Milliken  with  Clarence— w/io  is  explaining 

things  to  hint. 

Clarence.— Here  they  are,  I  give  you  my  word  of 
honour.    Ask  'em,  damn  'em. 

Milliken.— What  is  this  I  hear?  You,  John  How- 
ell, have  dared  to  strike  a  gentleman  under  my  roof! 
Your  master's  brother-in-law? 

John. — Yes,  by  Jove!  and  I'd  do  it  again. 

Milliken. — Are  you  drunk  or  mad,  Howell? 

John.  —  I'm  as  sober  and  as  sensible  as  ever  I  was 
in  my  life,  sir — I  not  only  struck  the  master,  but  I  struck 


THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB      431 

the  man,  who's  twice  as  big,  only  not  quite  as  big  a 
coward,  I  think. 

]\IiLLiKEN.— Hold  your  scurrilous  tongue,  sir!  My 
good  nature  ruins  everybody  about  me.  Make  up  your 
accounts.  Pack  your  trunks — and  never  let  me  see  your 
face  again. 

John.— Very  good,  sir. 

MiLLiKEN.— I  supj^ose,  Miss  Prior,  you  will  also  be 
disposed  to— to  follow  Mr.  Howell? 

JMiss  P.  —  To  quit  }^ou,  now  you  know  what  has 
passed?  I  never  supposed  it  could  be  otherwise — I 
deceived  you,  Mr.  Milliken — as  I  kept  a  secret  from 
you,  and  must  pay  the  penalty.  It  is  a  relief  to 
me,  the  sword  has  been  hanging  over  me.  I  wish 
I  had  told  your  poor  wife,  as  I  was  often  minded 
to  do. 

Milliken. — Oh,  you  were  minded  to  do  it  in  Italy, 
were  you? 

Miss  P.  —  Captain  Touchit  knew  it,  sir,  all  along:  and 
that  my  motives  and,  thank  God,  my  life  were  hon- 
ourable. 

Milliken.— Oh,  Touchit  knew  it,  did  he?  and  thought 
it  honourable — honourable.  Ha!  ha!  to  marry  a  foot- 
man— and  keep  a  public-house?  I  —  I  beg  your  j^ardon, 
John  Plowell — I  mean  nothing  against  you,  you  know. 
You're  an  honourable  man  enough,  except  that  you  have 
been  damned  insolent  to  my  brother-in-law. 

John. — Oh,  heaven!  [John  strikes  his  forehead, 
and  walks  away.~\ 

Miss  P. — You  mistake  me,  sir.  What  I  wished  to 
speak  of  was  the  fact  which  this  gentleman  has  no 
doubt  communicated  to  you— that  I  danced  on  the  stage 
for  three  months. 


432      THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 

MiLLiKEN.— Oh,  yes.  Oh,  damme,  yes.  I  forgot.  I 
wasn't  thinking  of  that. 

KiCKLEBURY.— You  sec  she  owns  it. 

^Iiss  P.— We  were  in  the  depths  of  poverty.  Our 
furniture  and  lodging-house  under  execution— from 
which  Captain  Touchit,  when  he  came  to  know  of  our  / 
difficulties,  nobly  afterwards  released  us.  My  father 
was  in  prison,  and  wanted  shillings  for  medicine,  and  I 
— I  went  and  danced  on  the  stage. 

MiLLIKEN.  —  Well  ? 

Miss  P.— And  I  kept  the  secret  afterwards;  knowing 
that  I  could  never  hope  as  governess  to  obtain  a  place 
after  having  been  a  stage-dancer. 

MiLLIKEN.— Of  course  you  couldn't,— it's  out  of  the 
question;  and  may  I  ask,  are  you  going  to  resume  that 
delightful  profession  when  you  enter  the  married  state 
with  Mr.  Howell? 

Miss  P.— Poor  John!  it  is  not  I  who  am  going  to— 
that  is,  it's  Mary,  the  school-room  maid. 

MiLLIKEN.— Eternal  blazes!  Have  you  turned  Mor- 
mon, John  Howell,  and  are  you  going  to  marry  the 
whole  house? 

John.— I  made  a  hass  of  myself  about  Miss  Prior. 
I  couldn't  help  her  being  1—1— lovely. 

Kick.— Gad,  he  proposed  to  her  in  my  presence. 

Jqjjn.— What  I  proposed  to  her.  Cornet  Clarence 
Kicklebury,  was  my  heart  and  my  honour,  and  my  best, 
and  my  everything— and  you— you  wanted  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  her  secret,  and  you  offered  her  indignities, 
and  you  laid  a  cowardly  hand  on  her— a  cowardly  hand! 
—and  I  struck  you,  and  I'd  do  it  again. 

MiLLIKEN.— What?  Is  this  true?  [Turning  round 
very  fiercely  to  K.I 


THE  WOLVES  AXD  THE  LAMB      433 

KiCK.-Gad!    Well-I  only- 

MiLLiKEN.— You  only  what?  You  only  insulted  a 
lady  under  my  roof —the  friend  and  nurse  of  your  dead 
sister— the  guardian  of  my  children.  You  only  took  ad- 
vantage of  a  defenceless  girl,  and  would  have  extorted 
your  infernal  pay  out  of  her  fear.  You  miserable  sneak 
and  coward! 

Kick.— Hallo!  Come,  come!  I  say  I  won't  stand 
this  sort  of  chaff.    Dammy,  I'll  send  a  friend  to  you! 

Milliken.— Go  out  of  that  window,  sir.  March!  or 
I  will  tell  my  servant,  John  Howell,  to  kick  you  out,  j^ou 
wretched  little  scamp !  Tell  that  big  brute,— what's-his- 
name? — Lady  Kicklebury's  man,  to  pack  this  young 
man's  portmanteau  and  bear's-grease  pots;  and  if  ever 
you  enter  these  doors  again,  Clarence  Kicklebury,  by 
the  heaven  that  made  me! — by  your  sister  who  is  dead! 
—  I  will  cane  your  life  out  of  j^our  bones.  Angel  in 
heaven!  Shade  of  my  Arabella— to  think  that  your 
brother  in  vour  house  should  be  found  to  insult  the  guar- 
dian  of  your  children! 

John.— By  jingo,  you're  a  good-plucked  one!  I 
knew  he  was.  Miss, — I  told  you  he  was.  [Ecvit,  shak- 
ing hands  with  his  master,  and  tvith  JNIiss  P.,  and  dancing 
for  joy.    Exit  Clarence^  scared,  out  of  window.'] 

John  [^without], — Bulkeley!  pack  up  the  Caj)ting's 
luggage ! 

Milliken.— How  can  I  ask  your  j^ardon,  IMiss 
Prior?  In  my  wife's  name  I  ask  it — in  the  name  of  that 
angel  whose  dying-bed  you  watched  and  soothed — of  the 
innocent  children  whom  you  have  faithfully  tended 
since. 

Miss  P.— Ah,  sir!  it  is  granted  when  you  speak  so  to 
me. 


134      THE  AVOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 

MiLLiKEN. — Ell,  eh— d— don't  call  me  sir! 

]\Iiss  P.  —  It  is  for  me  to  ask  pardon  for  hiding  what 
you  know  now:  but  if  I  had  told  you — you — you  never 
would  have  taken  me  into  your  house — your  wife  never 
would. 

MiLLiKEN.— No,  no.     [Weeping.'] 

Miss  P.— My  dear,  kind  Captain  Touchit  knows  it 
all.  It  was  by  his  counsel  I  acted.  He  it  was  who  re- 
lieved our  distress.  Ask  him  whether  my  conduct  was 
not  honourable — ask  him  whether  my  life  was  not  de- 
voted to  my  parents — ask  him  when — when  I  am  gone. 

MnxiKEN.— When  you  are  gone,  Julia!  Why  are 
you  going?  Why  should  j^ou  go,  my  love — that  is — why 
need  you  go,  in  the  devil's  name? 

Miss  P. — Because,  when  your  mother — when  your  mo- 
ther-in-law come  to  hear  that  your  children's  governess 
has  been  a  dancer  on  the  stage,  they  will  send  me  away, 
and  you  will  not  have  the  power  to  resist  them.  They 
ought  to  send  m.e  away,  sir;  but  I  have  acted  honestly 
by  the  children  and  their  poor  mother,  and  you'll  think 
of  me  kindly  when — I — am — gone? 

MiLLiKEN. — Julia,  my  dearest — dear — noble — dar — 
the  devil!  here's  old  Kicklebury. 

Filter  Lady  K.,  Children,  and  Clarence. 

Lady  K.  — So,  Miss  Prior!  this  is  what  I  hear,  is  it? 
A  dancer  in  my  house!  a  serpent  in  ni}^  bosom — poison- 
ing— yes,  poisoning  those  blessed  children!  occasioning 
quarrels  between  my  own  son  and  my  dearest  son-in- 
law;  flirting  with  the  footman!  When  do  you  intend 
to  leave,  madam,  the  house  which  you  have  po — poll — 
luted? 


THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB      435 

Miss  P.— I  need  no  hard  language,  Lady  Kicklebury: 
and  I  will  reply  to  none.  I  have  signified  to  Mr.  Milli- 
ken  my  wish  to  leave  his  house. 

MiLLiKEN.— Not,  not,  if  you  will  stay.    ^To  Miss  P.] 

Lady  K.— Stay,  Horace!  she  shall  never  stay  as  gov- 
erness in  this  house! 

MiLLiKEN.— Julia!  will  you  stay  as  mistress?  You 
have  known  me  for  a  year  alone — before,  not  so  well — 
when  the  house  had  a  mistress  that  is  gone.  You  know 
what  my  temper  is,  and  that  my  tastes  are  simple,  and 
my  heart  not  unkind.  I  have  watched  you,  and  have 
never  seen  you  out  of  temper,  though  you  have  been 
tried.  I  have  long  thought  you  good  and  beautiful,  but 
I  never  thought  to  ask  the  question  which  I  put  to  you 
now:— come  in,  sir!  [to  Clarence  at  ^oor]:— now 
that  you  have  been  persecuted  by  those  who  ought 
to  have  upheld  you,  and  insulted  by  those  who  owed 
you  gratitude  and  respect.  I  am  tired  of  their  domi- 
nation, and  as  w^eary  of  a  man's  cowardly  impertinence 
[to  Clarence]  as  of  a  woman's  jealous  tyranny.  They 
have  made  what  was  my  Arabella's  home  miserable  by 
their  oppression  and  their  quarrels.  Julia!  my  wife's 
friend,  my  children's  friend!  be  mine,  and  make  me 
happy!  Don't  leave  me,  Julia!  say  you  won't — say  you 
won't — dearest — dearest  girl! 

Miss  P. — I  won't — leave — you. 

George  [tvithout~\.  — Oh,  I  say!  Arabella,  look 
here:  here's  papa  a-kissing  Miss  Prior! 

Lady  K. — Horace — Clarence  my  son!  Shade  of  my 
Arabella!  can  you  behold  this  horrible  scene,  and  not 
shudder  in  heaven!  Bulkele}^!  Clarence!  go  for  a  doc- 
tor— go  to  Doctor  Straitwaist  at  the  Asylum — Horace 
Milliken,  who  has  married  the  descendant  of  the  Kickle- 


436      THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 

burys  of  the  Conqueror,  marry  a  dancing-girl  off  the 
stage!  Horace  MilHken!  do  you  wish  to  see  me  die  in 
convulsions  at  your  feet?  I  writhe  there,  I  grovel  there. 
Look !  look  at  me  on  my  knees !  your  own  mother-in-law ! 
drive  away  this  fiend! 

MiLLiKEN.— Hem!  I  ought  to  thank  you.  Lady 
Kicklebury,  for  it  is  you  that  have  given  her  to  me. 

Lady  K.— He  won't  listen!  he  turns  away  and  kisses 
her  horrible  hand.  This  will  never  do:  help  me  up, 
Clarence,  I  must  go  and  fetch  his  mother.  Ah,  ah! 
there  she  is,  there  she  is!  [Lady  K.  rushes  out,  as  the 
top  of  a  barouche,  with  ^Ir.  and  Mrs.  Bonnington  and 
Coachman,  is  seen  over  the  gate.^ 

Mrs.  B.— What  is  this  I  hear,  my  son,  my  son?  You 
are  going  to  marry  a— a  stage-dancer?  you  are  driving 
me  mad,  Horace! 

MiLLiKEN.  — Give  me  my  second  chance,  mother,  to 
be  happy.    You  have  had  yourself  two  chances. 

Mrs.  B.— Speak  to  him,  Mr.  Bonnington.  [Bon- 
nington makes  dumb  show.^ 

Lady  K.  — Implore  him,  Mr.  Bonnington. 

Mrs.  B.— Pray,  pray  for  him,  Mr.  Bonnington,  my 
love— my  lost,  abandoned  boy! 

Lady  K.— Oh,  my  poor  dear  Mrs.  Bonnington! 

Mrs.  B.— Oh,  my  poor  dear  Lady  Kicklebury.  [They 
embrace  each  other.'] 

Lady  K.— I  have  been  down  on  my  knees  to  him, 
dearest  Mrs.  Bonnington. 

Mrs.  B.— Let  us  both— both  go  down  on  our  knees— 
I  will  [to  her  husband].  Edward,  I  will!  [Both  ladies 
on  their  knees.  Bonnington  with  outstretched  hands 
behind  them.]  Look,  unhappy  boy!  look,  Horace!  two 
mothers  on  their  wretched  knees  before  you,  imploring 


THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB      437 

you  to  send  away  this  monster!    Speak  to  him,  ]Mr.  Bon- 
nington.     Edward!  use  authority  with  him,  if  he  will 
not  listen  to  his  mother— 
Lady  K. — To  his  mothers! 

Enter  Touchit. 

ToucHiT.— What  is  this  comedy  going  on,  ladies  and 
gentlemen?  The  ladies  on  their  elderly  knees — INIiss 
Prior  with  her  hair  down  her  back.  Is  it  tragedy  or 
comedy — is  it  a  rehearsal  for  a  charade,  or  are  we  acting 
for  Horace's  birthday?  or,  oh!— I  beg  your  Reverence's 
pardon— you  were  perhaps  going  to  a  professional 
duty? 

^Irs.  B.  — It's  tL'e  who  are  praying  this  child,  Touchit. 
This  child,  with  w^hom  you  used  to  come  home  from 
Westminster  when  you  were  boys.  You  have  influence 
with  him ;  he  listens  to  you.  Entreat  him  to  pause  in  his 
madness. 

Touchit. — What  madness? 

Mrs.  B.— That— that  woman— that  serpent  yonder 
— that— that  dancing- woman,  w^hom  you  introduced  to 
Arabella  Milliken,— ah!  and  I  rue  the  day:— Horace  is 
going  to  mum — mum — marry  her! 

Touchit. — Well!  I  always  thought  he  would.  Ever 
since  I  saw  him  and  her  playing  at  whist  together,  when 
I  came  down  here  a  month  ago,  I  thought  he  would  do 
it. 

Mrs.  B.  — Oh,  it's  the  whist,  the  w^iist!  Why  did  I 
ever  play  at  whist,  Edward?  My  poor  Mr.  INIilliken 
used  to  like  his  rubber. 

Touchit.  —  Since  he  has  been  a  w'idower — 

Lady  K.— A  widower  of  that  angel!  [Points  to  pic- 
ture.1 


438      THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 

ToucHiT.— Pooh,  pooh,  angel!  You  two  ladies  have 
never  given  the  poor  fellow  any  peace.  You  were  al- 
ways quarrelling  over  him.  You  took  possession  of  his 
house,  bullied  his  servants,  spoiled  his  children ;  you  did. 
Lady  Kicklebury. 

Lady  K. — Sir,  you  are  a  rude,  low,  presuming,  vulgar 
man.    Clarence !  beat  this  rude  man ! 

ToucHiT. — From  what  I  have  heard  of  your  amiable 
son,  he  is  not  in  the  warlike  line,  I  think.  My  dear 
Julia,  I  am  delighted  with  all  my  heart  that  my  old 
friend  should  have  found  a  woman  of  sense,  good  con- 
duct, good  temper — a  woman  who  has  had  many  trials, 
and  borne  them  with  great  patience— to  take  charge  of 
him  and  make  him  happy.  Horace,  give  me  your  hand ! 
I  knew  Miss  Prior  in  great  poverty.  I  am  sure  she  will 
bear  as  nobly  her  present  good  fortune;  for  good 
fortune  it  is  to  any  woman  to  become  the  wife  of  such 
a  loyal,  honest,  kindly  gentleman  as  you  are! 

Enter  John. 

John.— If  you  please,  my  lady— if  j^ou  please,  sir— 
Bulkeley — 

Lady  K.— What  of  Bulkeley,  sir? 

John.— He  has  packed  his  things,  and  Cornet  Kick- 
lebury's  things,  my  lady. 

MiLLiKEN.— Let  the  fellow  go. 

John.— He  won't  go,  sir,  till  my  lady  have  paid  him 
his  book  and  wages.    Here's  the  book,  sir. 

Lady  K.  — Insolence!  quit  my  presence!  And  I,  Mr. 
Milliken,  will  quit  a  house — 

John.  —  Shall  I  call  your  ladyship  a  carriage? 

Lady  K. — Where  I  have  met  with  rudeness,  cruelty. 


THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB      439 

and  fiendish  [to  Miss  P.,  tcJio  smiles  and  curtsies^— yeSy 
fiendish  ingratitude.  I  will  go,  I  say,  as  soon  as  I  have 
made  arrangements  for  taking  other  lodgings.  You 
cannot  expect  a  lady  of  fashion  to  turn  out  like  a  ser- 
vant. 

John.— Hire  the  "Star  and  Garter"  for  her,  sir. 
Send  down  to  the  "  Castle; "  anything  to  get  rid  of  her. 
I'll  tell  her  maid  to  pack  her  traps.  Pinhorn!  [Beckons 
maid  and  gives  orders.~\ 

ToucHiT. — You  had  better  go  at  once,  my  dear  Lady 
Kicklebury. 

Lady  K.— Sir! 

ToucHiT. — The  other  mother-in-law  is  coming!  I 
met  her  on  the  road  with  all  her  family.  He!  he!  he! 
[Screams.^ 

Enter  Mrs.  Prior  arid  Children. 

Mrs.  p.— My  lady!  I  hope  your  ladyship  is  quite 
well!  Dear,  kind  Mrs.  Bonnington!  I  came  to  pay  my 
duty  to  you,  ma'am.  This  is  Charlotte,  my  lady — the 
great  girl  whom  your  ladyshij)  so  kindly  promised  the 
gown  for;  and  this  is  my  little  girl,  Mrs.  Bonnington, 
ma'am,  please;  and  this  is  my  Bluecoat  boy.  Go  and 
speak  to  dear,  kind  Mr.  Milliken — our  best  friend  and 
protector — the  son  and  son-in-law  of  these  dear  ladies. 
Look,  sir!  He  has  brought  his  copy  to  show  you.  [Boy 
shows  cojjy-l  Ain't  it  creditable  to  a  boy  of  his  age. 
Captain  Touchit?  And  my  best  and  most  grateful  ser- 
vices to  you,  sir.  Julia,  Julia,  my  dear,  where's  your 
cap  and  spectacles,  you  stupid  thing?  You've  let  your 
hair  drop  down.  What!  what! — [Begins  to  be  puz- 
zled.'] 


440      THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 

Mrs.  B. — Is  this  collusion,  madam? 

Mrs.  p.  — Collusion,  dear  Mrs.  Bonnington! 

Lady  K.  —  Or  insolence,  Mrs.  Prior? 

INIrs.  p.  — Insolence,  your  ladyship!  What— what  is 
it?  what  has  happened?  What's  Julia's  hair  down  for? 
Ah!  you've  not  sent  the  poor  girl  away?  the  poor,  poor 
child,  and  the  poor,  poor  children! 

ToucHiT.— That  dancing  at  the  "  Coburg"  has  come 
out,  Mrs.  Prior. 

Mrs.  p.— Not  the  darling's  fault.  It  was  to  help  her 
poor  father  in  prison.  It  was  I  who  forced  her  to  do  it. 
Oh!  don't,  don't,  dear  Lady  Kicklebury,  take  the  bread 
out  of  the  mouths  of  these  poor  orphans!    ICrying.l 

JNIiLLiKEX.— Enough  of  this,  Mrs.  Prior:  your 
daughter  is  not  going  away.  Julia  has  promised  to  stay 
with  me — and — never  to  leave  me — as  governess  no 
longer,  but  as  wife  to  me. 

Mrs.  p.  — Is  it— is  it  true,  Julia? 

Miss  P. — Yes,  mamma. 

JNIrs.  p.  — Oh!  oh!  oh!  [Flings  down  her  umbrella ^ 
kisses  Julia,  and  running  to  IMilliken,]  My  son,  my 
son!  Come  here,  children.  Come,  Adolphus,  Amelia, 
Charlotte — kiss  your  dear  brother,  children.  What,  my 
dears!  How  do  you  do,  dears?  [to  Milliken's  chil- 
dren~\.  Have  they  heard  the  news?  And  do  you  know 
that  my  daughter  is  going  to  be  your  mamma?  There 
— there — go  and  play  with  your  little  uncles  and  aunts, 
that's  good  children!  [She  motions  off  the  Children, 
who  retire  towards  garden.  Her  manner  changes  to 
one  of  great  imtronage  and  intense  satisfaction.^  Most 
hot  weather,  your  ladyship,  I'm  sure.  INIr.  Bonnington, 
you  must  find  it  hot  weather  for  preachin' !  Lor' !  there's 
that  little  wretch  beatin'  Adolphus!     George,  sir!  have 


THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB  Ul 

done,  sir!  \_Runs  to  separate  t1iem.~\  How  ever  shall 
we  make  those  children  agree,  Julia? 

Miss  P.— They  have  been  a  little  spoiled,  and  I  think 
Mr.  JNIilliken  will  send  George  and  Arabella  to  school, 
mamma:  will  you  not,  Horace? 

Mr.  Milliken.— I  think  school  will  be  the  very  best 
thing  for  them. 

Mrs.  p.— And  [Mrs.  P.  xvhispers,  jjointing  to  her 
own  childreji^  the  blue  room,  the  green  room,  the  rooms 
old  Lady  Kick  has — plenty  of  room  for  us,  my  dear! 

Miss  P. — Xo,  mamma,  I  think  it  will  be  too  large  a 
party, — Mr.  Milliken  has  often  said  that  he  would  like 
to  go  abroad,  and  I  hope  that  now  he  will  be  able  to 
make  his  tour. 

Mrs.  p.  —  Oh,  then!  we  can  live  in  the  house,  you 
know:  what's  the  use  of  payin'  lodgin',  my  dear? 

Miss  P. — The  house  is  going  to  be  painted.  You  had 
best  live  in  your  own  house,  mamma;  and  if  you  want 
anything,  Horace,  Mr.  Milliken,  I  am  sure,  will  make 
it  comfortable  for  you.  He  has  had  too  many  visitors 
of  late,  and  will  like  a  more  quiet  life,  I  think.  Will 
you  not? 

jNIillikex.  —  I  shall  like  a  life  with  you,  Julia. 

John.  —  Cab,  sir,  for  her  ladj^ship! 

Lady  K.— This  instant  let  me  go!  Call  my  people. 
Clarence,  your  arm!  Bulkeley,  Pinhorn!  Mrs.  Bon- 
nington,  I  wish  you  good-morning!  Arabella,  angel! 
\_looJvS  at  picture^  I  leave  you.  I  shall  come  to  you  ere 
long.  [Etvit,  refusing  Milliken's  hand,  passes  up  gar- 
den, with  her  servants  following  her.  INIary  and  other 
servants  of  the  house  are  collected  together,  whom  Lady 
K.  waves  off.  Bluecoat  boy  on  wall  eating  plums. 
Page,  as  she  goes,  cries,  Hurray,  hurray!     Bluecoat 


442      THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 

boy  cries.  Hurray!  When  Lady  K.  is  gone,  John  ad- 
vances.} 

John.  — I  think  I  heard  j^ou  say,  sir,  that  it  was  your 
intention  to  go  abroad? 

MiLLiKEN.— Yes;  oh,  yes!  Are  we  going  abroad,  my 
Juha? 

JNIiss  P.— To  settle  matters,  to  have  the  house  painted, 
and  clear  [pointing  to  children,  mother,  c^c]  Don't  you 
think  it  is  the  best  thing  that  we  can  do? 

MiLLiKEN.— Surely,  surely:  we  are  going  abroad. 
Howell,  you  will  come  with  us  of  course,  and  with  your 
experiences  you  will  make  a  capital  courier.  Won't 
Howell  make  a  capital  courier,  Julia?  Good,  honest 
fellow,  John  Howell.  Beg  your  pardon  for  being  so 
rude  to  you  just  now.    But  my  temper  is  very  hot,  verjd 

John  [laughing'].— Yon  are  a  Tartar,  sir.  Such  a 
tyrant!  isn't  he,  ma'am? 

Miss  P.— Well,  no;  I  don't  think  you  have  a  very  bad 
temj^er,  Mr.  Milliken,  a — Horace. 

John.— You  must— take  care  of  him— alone.  Miss 
Prior— Julia— I  mean  ^Irs.  ^lilliken.  Man  and  boy 
I've  waited  on  him  this  fifteen  year:  with  the  exception 
of  that  trial  at  the  printing-office,  which— which  I  won't 
talk  of  710W,  madam.  I  never  knew  him  angry;  though 
many  a  time  I  have  known  him  provoked.  I  never  knew 
him  say  a  hard  word,  though  sometimes  perhaps  we've 
deserved  it.  Not  often— such  a  good  master  as  that  is 
pretty  sure  of  getting  a  good  servant— that  is,  if  a  man 
has  a  heart  in  his  bosom;  and  these  things  are  found  both 
in  and  out  of  livery.  Yes,  1  have  been  a  honest  servant 
to  him,— haven't  I,  Mr.  Milliken? 

Mn.LiKEN.— Indeed,  yes,  John. 

John.— And  so  has  Mary  Barlow.    Mary,  my  dear! 


THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB      443 

[JMary  comes  forward.^  Will  you  allow  me  to  intro- 
duce you,  sir,  to  the  futur'  Mrs.  Howell?— if  Mr.  Bon- 
nington  does  your  little  business  for  you,  as  I  dare  say 
[turning  to  Mr.  B.],  hold  gov'nor,  you  will! — Make  it 
up  with  your  poor  son,  Mrs.  Bonnington,  ma'am.  You 
have  took  a  second  'elpmate,  why  shouldn't  Master  Hor- 
ace? [to  Mrs.  B.]  He— he  wants  somebody  to  help 
him,  and  take  care  of  him,  more  than  you  do. 

ToucHiT.— You  never  spoke  a  truer  word  in  your 
life,  Howell. 

John.  — It's  my  general  'abit,  Capting,  to  indulge  in 
them  sort  of  statements.  A  time  friend  I  have  been  to 
my  master,  and  a  true  friend  I'll  remain  when  he's  my 
master  no  more. 

MiLLiKEN.— Why,  John, you  are  not  going  to  leave  me? 

John.— It's  best,  sir,  I  should  go.  I— I'm  not  fit 
to  be  a  servant  in  this  house  any  longer.  I  wish  to  sit 
in  my  own  little  home,  with  my  own  little  wife  by  m}^ 
side.  Poor  dear!  you've  no  conversation,  Mary,  but 
you're  a  good  little  soul.  We've  saved  a  hundred  pound 
apiece,  and  if  we  want  more,  I  know  who  won't  grudge 
it  us,  a  good  feller— a  good  master — for  whom  I've 
saved  many  a  hundred  pound  myself,  and  will  take  the 
"Milliken  Arms"  at  old  Pigeoncot— and  once  a  year 
or  so,  at  this  hanniversary,  we  will  pay  our  respects  to 
you,  sir,  and  madam.  Perhaps  we  will  bring  some  chil- 
dren with  us,  perhaps  we  will  find  some  more  in  this 
villa.  Bless  'em  beforehand !  Good-by,  sir,  and  madam 
— come  away,  Mary!  [going^. 

Mrs.  V .—  [entering  with  clothes j  (§c.]  — She  has  not 
left  a  single  thing  in  her  room.  Amelia,  come  here !  this 
cloak  will  do  capital  for  you,  and  this— this  garment  is 
the  very  thing  for  Adolphus.     Oh,  John!  eh,  Howell! 


444      THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 

will  you  please  to  see  that  my  children  have  something 
to  eat,  immediately!  The  Milliken  children,  I  suppose, 
have  dined  already? 

John. — Yes,  ma'am;  certainly,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  p. — I  see  he  is  inclined  to  be  civil  to  me  now! 

Miss  P. — John  Howell  is  about  to  leave  us,  mamma. 
He  is  engaged  to  Mary  Barlow,  and  when  we  go  away, 
he  is  going  to  set  up  housekeeping  for  himself.  Good- 
by,  and  thank  you,  John  Howell  [gives  her  hand  to 
John,  but  with  great  reserve  of  manner^.  You  have 
been  a  kind  and  true  friend  to  us — if  ever  we  can  serve 
you,  count  upon  us— may  he  not,  Mr.  Milliken? 

Milliken.— Always,  always. 

Miss  P. — But  you  will  still  wait  upon  us — upon  Mr. 
Milliken,  for  a  day  or  two,  won't  you,  John?  until  we 
—until  Mr.  Milliken  has  found  some  one  to  replace  you. 
He  will  never  find  any  one  more  honest  than  you,  and 
good,  kind  little  Mary.  Thank  you,  Mary,  for  your 
goodness  to  the  poor  governess. 

Mary.  — Oh,  miss!  oh,  mum!  [Miss  P.  kisses  Mary 
jjatronizingly.l 

Miss  P.  [to  John].— And  after  they  have  had  some 
refreshment,  get  a  cab  for  my  brothers  and  sisters,  if  you 
l)lease,  John.  Don't  you  think  that  will  be  best,  my — 
my  dear? 

Milliken.  — Of  course,  of  course,  dear  Julia! 

Miss  P.— And,  Captain  Touchit,  you  will  stay,  I 
hope,  and  dine  with  Mr.  Milliken?  And,  Mrs.  Bon- 
nington,  if  you  will  receive  as  a  daughter  one  who  has 
always  had  a  sincere  regard  for  you,  I  think  you  will 
aid  in  making  your  son  happy,  as  I  promise  you  with 
all  my  heart  and  all  my  life  to  endeavour  to  do.  [Miss 
P.  andM.  go  up  to  Mrs.  Bonnington. 


THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB      445 

Mrs.  Bonnington.— Well,  there  then,  since  it  must 
be  so,  bless  you,  my  children. 

ToucHiT.— Spoken  like  a  sensible  woman!  And 
now,  as  I  do  not  wish  to  interrupt  this  felicity,  I  will  go 
and  dine  at  the  "  Star  and  Garter." 

Miss  P.— My  dear  Captain  Touchit,  not  for  worlds! 
Don't  you  know  I  mustn't  be  alone  with  Mr.  Milliken 
until— until— ? 

Milliken.— Until  I  am  made  the  happiest  man  alive! 
And  you  will  come  down  and  see  us  often,  Touchit, 
won't  you  ?  And  we  hope  to  see  our  friends  here  often. 
And  we  will  have  a  little  life  and  spirit  and  gaiety  in 
the  place.  Oh,  mother!  oh,  George!  oh,  Juha!  what  a 
comfort  it  is  to  me  to  think  that  I  am  released  from 
the  tyranny  of  that  terrible  mother-in-law ! 

Mrs.  Prior.  — Come  in  to  your  teas,  children.  Come 
this  moment,  I  say.  [The  Children  pass,  quarrelling, 
behind  the  characters,  ^Irs.  Prior  summoning  them; 
John  and  Mary  standing  on  each  side  of  the  dining- 
room  door,  as  the  curtain  falls.~\ 


THE 
SECOND  FUNERAL  OF  NAPOLEON 

BY   MICHAEL   ANGELO   TITMARSH 


THE 

SECOND  FUNERAL  OF  NAPOLEON 


ON   THE   DISINTERMENT   OF   NAPOLEON   AT 
ST.  HELENA 

My  Dear , — It  is  no  easy  task  in  this  world  to  dis- 
tinguish between  what  is  great  in  it,  and  what  is  mean; 
and  many  and  many  is  the  puzzle  that  I  have  had  in 
reading  History  (or  the  works  of  fiction  which  go  by 
that  name),  to  know  whether  I  should  laud  up  to  the 
skies,  and  endeavour,  to  the  best  of  my  small  capabili- 
ties, to  imitate  the  remarkable  character  about  whom  I 
was  reading,  or  whether  I  should  fling  aside  the  book 
and  the  hero  of  it,  as  things  altogether  base,  unworthy, 
laughable,  and  get  a  novel,  or  a  game  of  billiards,  or  a 
pipe  of  tobacco,  or  the  report  of  the  last  debate  in  the 
House,  or  any  other  employment  which  would  leave  the 
mind  in  a  state  of  easy  vacuity,  rather  than  pester  it 
with  a  vain  set  of  dates  relating  to  actions  which  are  in 
themselves  not  worth  a  fig,  or  with  a  parcel  of  names  of 
people  whom  it  can  do  one  no  earthly  good  to  remember. 
It  is  more  than  probable,  my  love,  that  you  are 
acquainted  with  what  is  called  Grecian  and  Roman  his- 
tory, chiefly  from  perusing,  in  very  early  youth,  the  lit- 
tle sheepskin-bound  volumes  of  the  ingenious  Dr.  Gold- 
smith, and  have  been  indebted  for  your  knowledge  of 

449 


450    SECOND  FUNERAL  OF  NAPOLEON 

our  English  annals  to  a  subsequent  study  of  the  more 
voluminous  works  of  Hume  and  Smollett.  The  first 
and  the  last-named  authors,  dear  INIiss  Smith,  have  writ- 
ten each  an  admirable  history,— that  of  the  Reverend 
Dr.  Primrose,  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  and  that  of  Mr. 
Robert  Bramble,  of  Bramble  Hall — in  both  of  which 
works  you  will  find  true  and  instructive  pictures  of 
human  life,  and  which  you  may  always  think  over  with 
advantage.  But  let  me  caution  you  against  putting  any 
considerable  trust  in  the  other  works  of  these  authors, 
which  were  placed  in  your  hands  at  school  and  after- 
wards, and  in  which  you  were  taught  to  believe.  Mod- 
ern historians,  for  the  most  part,  know  very  little,  and, 
secondly,  only  tell  a  little  of  what  they  know. 

As  for  those  Greeks  and  Romans  whom  you  have 
read  of  in  "sheepskin,"  were  you  to  know  really  what 
those  monsters  were,  you  would  blush  all  over  as  red  as 
a  hollyhock,  and  put  down  the  history-book  in  a  fury. 
Many  of  our  English  worthies  are  no  better.  You  are 
not  in  a  situation  to  know  the  real  characters  of  any  one 
of  them.  They  appear  before  you  in  their  public  capac- 
ities, but  the  individuals  you  know  not.  Suppose,  for 
instance,  your  mamma  had  purchased  her  tea  in  the  Bor- 
ough from  a  grocer  living  there  by  the  name  of  Green- 
acre:  suppose  you  had  been  asked  out  to  dinner,  and 
the  gentleman  of  the  house  had  said:  "Ho!  Francois! 
a  glass  of  champagne  for  Miss  Smith; "—Courvoisier 
would  have  served  you  just  as  any  other  footman 
would;  you  would  never  have  known  that  there  was 
anything  extraordinary  in  these  individuals,  but  would 
have  thought  of  them  only  in  their  respective  public 
characters  of  Grocer  and  Footman.  This,  Madam,  is 
History,  in  which  a  man  always  appears  dealing  with 


THE  DISINTERMENT  AT  ST.  HELENA  451 

the  world  in  his  apron,  or  his  laced  livery,  but  which  has 
not  the  power  or  the  leisure,  or,  perhaps,  is  too  high  and 
mighty  to  condescend  to  follow  and  study  him  in  his 
privacy.  Ah,  my  dear,  when  big  and  little  men  come  to 
be  measured  rightly,  and  great  and  small  actions  to  be 
weighed  properly,  and  people  to  be  stripped  of  their 
royal  robes,  beggars'  rags,  generals'  uniforms,  seedy 
out-at-elbowed  coats,  and  the  like — or  the  contrary  say, 
when  souls  come  to  be  stripped  of  their  wicked  deceiving 
bodies,  and  turned  out  stark  naked  as  they  were  before 
they  were  born — what  a  strange  startling  sight  shall  we 
see,  and  what  a  pretty  figure  shall  some  of  us  cut! 
Fancy  how  we  shall  see  Pride,  with  his  Stultz  clothes 
and  padding  pulled  off,  and  dwindled  down  to  a  forked 
radish!  Fancy  some  Angelic  Virtue,  whose  white  rai- 
ment is  suddenly  whisked  over  his  head,  showing  us 
cloven  feet  and  a  tail!  Fancy  Humility,  eased  of  its 
sad  load  of  cares  and  w^ant  and  scorn,  walking  up  to  the 
very  highest  place  of  all,  and  blushing  as  he  takes  it! 
Fancy, — but  we  must  not  fancy  such  a  scene  at  all, 
which  would  be  an  outrage  on  public  decency.  Should 
we  be  any  better  than  our  neighbours?  No,  certainly. 
And  as  we  can't  be  virtuous,  let  us  be  decent.  Fig- 
leaves  are  a  very  decent,  becoming  wear,  and  have  been 
now  in  fashion  for  four  thousand  years.  And  so,  my 
dear,  History  is  written  on  fig-leaves.  Would  you 
have  anything  further?     O  fie! 

Yes,  four  thousand  years  ago,  that  famous  tree  was 
planted.  At  their  very  first  lie,  our  first  parents  made 
for  it,  and  there  it  is  still  the  great  Humbug  Plant, 
stretching  its  wide  arms,  and  sheltering  beneath  its 
leaves,  as  broad  and  green  as  ever,  all  the  generations 
of  men.     Thus,  my  dear,  coquettes  of  your  fascinating 


452    SECOND  FUNERAL  OF  NAPOLEON 

sex  cover  their  persons  with  figgery,  fantastically  ar- 
ranged, and  call  their  masquerading,  modesty.  Cow- 
ards fig  themselves  out  fiercely  as  "  salvage  men,"  and 
make  us  believe  that  they  are  warriors.  Fools  look  very 
solemnly  out  from  the  dusk  of  the  leaves,  and  we  fancy 
in  the  gloom  that  they  are  sages.  And  many  a  man  sets 
a  great  wreath  about  his  pate  and  struts  abroad  a  hero, 
whose  claims  we  would  all  of  us  laugh  at,  could  we  but 
remove  the  ornament  and  see  his  numskull  bare. 

And  such —  (excuse  my  sermonizing)  —such  is  the  con- 
stitution of  mankind,  that  men  have,  as  it  were,  entered 
into  a  compact  among  themselves  to  pursue  the  fig-leaf 
system  a  Voutrance,  and  to  cry  down  all  who  oppose  it. 
Humbug  they  will  have.  Humbugs  themselves,  they 
will  respect  humbugs.  Their  daily  victuals  of  life  must 
be  seasoned  with  humbug.  Certain  things  are  there  in 
the  world  that  they  will  not  allow  to  be  called  by  their 
right  names,  and  will  insist  upon  our  admiring,  whether 
we  will  or  no.  Woe  be  to  the  man  who  would  enter  too 
far  into  the  recesses  of  that  magnificent  temple  where 
our  Goddess  is  enshrined,  peep  through  the  vast  em- 
broidered curtains  indiscreetly,  penetrate  the  secret  of 
secrets,  and  expose  the  Gammon  of  Gammons!  And 
as  you  must  not  peer  too  curiously  within,  so  neither 
must  you  remain  scornfully  without.  Humbug-wor- 
shippers, let  us  come  into  our  great  temple  regularly 
and  decently:  take  our  seats,  and  settle  our  clothes  de- 
cently ;  open  our  books,  and  go  through  the  service  with 
decent  gravity;  listen,  and  be  decently  affected  by  the 
expositions  of  the  decent  priest  of  the  place ;  and  if  by 
chance  some  straggling  vagabond,  loitering  in  the  sun- 
shine out  of  doors,  dares  to  laugh  or  to  sing,  and  disturb 
the  sanctified  dulness  of  the  faithful;— quick!  a  couple 


THE  DISINTERMENT  AT  ST.  HELENA  453 

of  big  beadles  rush  out  and  belabour  the  wretch,  and 
his  yells  make  our  devotions  more  comfortable. 

Some  magnificent  religious  ceremonies  of  this  nature 
are  at  present  taking  place  in  France;  and,  thinking 
that  you  might  perhaps  while  away  some  long  M^nter 
evening  with  an  account  of  them,  I  have  compiled  the 
following  pages  for  your  use.  Newspapers  have  been 
filled,  for  some  days  past,  with  details  regarding  the 
Saint  Helena  expedition,  many  pamphlets  have  been 
published,  men  go  about  crying  little  books  and  broad- 
sheets filled  with  real  or  sham  particulars;  and  from 
these  scarce  and  valuable  documents  the  following  pages 
are  chieflj^  compiled. 

We  must  begin  at  the  beginning;  premising,  in  the 
first  place,  that  Monsieur  Guizot,  when  French  Ambas- 
sador at  London,  waited  upon  Lord  Palmerston  with  a 
request  that  the  body  of  the  Emperor  Napoleon  should 
be  given  up  to  the  French  nation,  in  order  that  it  might 
find  a  final  resting-place  in  French  earth.  To  this  de- 
mand the  English  Government  gave  a  ready  assent ;  nor 
was  there  any  particular  explosion  of  sentiment  upon 
either  side,  only  some  pretty  cordial  expressions  of 
mutual  good-will.  Orders  were  sent  out  to  St.  Helena 
that  the  corpse  should  be  disinterred  in  due  time,  when 
the  French  expedition  had  arrived  in  search  of  it,  and 
that  every  respect  and  attention  should  be  paid  to  those 
who  came  to  carry  back  to  their  country  the  body  of  the 
famous  dead  warrior  and  sovereign. 

This  matter  being  arranged  in  very  few  words  (as  in 
England,  upon  most  points,  is  the  laudable  fashion), 
the  French  Chambers  began  to  debate  about  the  place 
in  which  they  should  bury  the  body  when  they  got  it; 
and  numberless  pamphlets  and  newspapers  out  of  doors 


454    SECOND  FUNERAL  OF  NAPOLEON 

joined  in  the  talk.  Some  people  there  were  who  had 
fought  and  conquered  and  been  beaten  with  the  great 
Napoleon,  and  loved  him  and  his  memory.  Many  more 
were  there  who,  because  of  his  great  genius  and  valour, 
felt  excessivel}^  proud  in  their  own  particular  persons, 
and  clamoured  for  the  return  of  their  hero.  And  if 
there  were  some  few  individuals  in  this  great  hot-headed, 
gallant,  boasting,  sublime,  absurd  French  nation,  who 
had  taken  a  cool  view  of  the  dead  Emperor's  character; 
if,  perhaps,  such  men  as  Louis  Philippe,  and  Monsieur 
A.  Thiers,  Minister  and  Deputy,  and  Monsieur  Fran- 
cois Guizot,  Deputy  and  Excellency,  had,  from  interest 
or  conviction,  opinions  at  all  differing  from  those  of  the 
majority;  why,  they  knew  what  was  what,  and  kept 
their  opinions  to  themselves,  coming  with  a  tolerably 
good  grace  and  flinging  a  few  handf uls  of  incense  upon 
the  altar  of  the  popular  idol. 

In  the  succeeding  debates,  then,  various  opinions  were 
given  with  regard  to  the  place  to  be  selected  for  the  Em- 
peror's sepulture.  "  Some  demanded,"  says  an  eloquent 
anonymous  Captain  in  the  Navy  who  has  written  an 
"  Itinerary  from  Toulon  to  St.  Helena,"  "  that  the  coffin 
should  be  deposited  under  the  bronze  taken  from  the 
enemy  by  the  French  army— under  the  Column  of  the 
Place  Vendome.  The  idea  was  a  fine  one.  This  is  the 
most  glorious  monument  that  was  ever  raised  in  a  con- 
queror's honour.  This  column  has  been  melted  out  of 
foreign  cannon.  These  same  cannons  have  furrowed 
the  bosoms  of  our  braves  with  noble  cicatrices;  and  this 
metal — conquered  by  the  soldier  first,  by  the  artist  after- 
wards— has  allowed  to  be  imprinted  on  its  front  its  own 
defeat  and  our  glory.  Napoleon  might  sleep  in  peace 
under  this  audacious  trophy.     But,  would  his  ashes  find 


THE  DISINTERMENT  AT  ST.  HELENA  455 

a  shelter  sufficiently  vast  beneath  this  pedestal?  And 
his  puissant  statue  dominating  Paris,  beams  with  suffi- 
cient grandeur  on  this  place :  whereas  the  wheels  of  car- 
riages and  the  feet  of  passengers  would  profane  the 
funereal  sanctity  of  the  spot  in  trampling  on  the  soil  so 
near  his  head." 

You  must  not  take  this  description,  dearest  Amelia, 
"  at  the  foot  of  the  letter,"  as  the  French  phrase  it,  but 
you  will  here  have  a  masterly  exposition  of  the  argu- 
ments for  and  against  the  burial  of  the  Emperor  under 
the  Column  of  the  Place  Vendome.  The  idea  was  a 
fine  one,  granted;  but,  like  all  other  ideas,  it  was  open 
to  objections.  You  must  not  fancy  that  the  cannon,  or 
rather  the  cannon-balls,  were  in  the  habit  of  furrowing 
the  bosoms  of  French  braves,  or  any  other  braves,  with 
cicatrices:  on  the  contrary,  it  is  a  known  fact  that  can- 
non-balls make  wounds,  and  not  cicatrices  (which,  my 
dear,  are  wounds  partially  healed)  ;  nay,  that  a  man 
generally  dies  after  receiving  one  such  projectile  on  his 
chest,  much  more  after  having  his  bosom  furrowed  by  a 
score  of  them.  No,  my  love ;  no  bosom,  however  heroic, 
can  stand  such  applications,  and  the  author  only  means 
that  the  French  soldiers  faced  the  cannon  and  took  them. 
Nor,  my  love,  must  you  suppose  that  the  column  was 
melted:  it  was  the  cannon  was  melted,  not  the  column; 
but  such  phrases  are  often  used  by  orators  when  they 
wish  to  give  a  particular  force  and  emphasis  to  their 
opinions. 

Well,  again,  although  Napoleon  might  have  slept  in 
peace  under  "  this  audacious  trophy,"  how  could  he  do 
so  and  carriages  go  rattling  by  all  night,  and  people 
with  great  iron  heels  to  their  boots  pass  clattering  over 
the  stones  ?     Nor  indeed  could  it  be  expected  that  a  man 


456    SECOND  FUNERAL  OF  NAPOLEON 

whose  reputation  stretches  from  the  Pyramids  to  the 
Kremhn,  should  find  a  column  of  which  the  base  is  only 
five-and-twenty  feet  square,  a  shelter  vast  enough  for 
his  bones.  In  a  word,  then,  although  the  proposal  to 
bury  Napoleon  under  the  column  was  ingenious,  it  was 
found  not  to  suit;  whereupon  somebody  else  proposed 
the  Madelaine. 

"  It  was  proposed,"  says  the  before-quoted  author 
with  his  usual  felicity,  "  to  consecrate  the  IMadelaine  to 
his  exiled  manes  "  —  that  is,  to  his  bones  when  they  were 
not  in  exile  any  longer.  "  He  ought  to  have,  it  was 
said,  a  temple  entire.  His  glory  fills  the  world.  His 
bones  could  not  contain  themselves  in  the  coffin  of  a  man 
— in  the  tomb  of  a  king! "  In  this  case  what  was  Marj^ 
Magdalen  to  do?  "This  proposition,  I  am  happy  to 
say,  was  rejected,  and  a  new  one — that  of  the  President 
of  the  Council— adopted.  Napoleon  and  his  braves 
ought  not  to  quit  each  other.  Under  the  immense  gilded 
dome  of  the  Invalides  he  would  find  a  sanctuary  worthy 
of  himself.  A  dome  imitates  the  vault  of  heaven,  and 
that  vault  alone"  (meaning  of  course  the  other  vault) 
"should  dominate  above  his  head.  His  old  mutilated 
Guard  shall  watch  around  him:  the  last  veteran,  as  he 
has  shed  his  blood  in  his  combats,  shall  breathe  his  last 
sigh  near  his  tomb,  and  all  these  tombs  shall  sleep  under 
the  tattered  standards  that  have  been  won  from  all  the 
nations  of  Europe." 

The  original  words  are  "  sous  les  lambeaux  cribles  des 
drapeaux  cueillis  chez  toutes  les  nations;"  in  English, 
"  under  the  riddled  rags  of  the  flags  that  have  been 
culled  or  plucked  "  (like  roses  or  buttercups)  "  in  all  the 
nations."  Sweet,  innocent  flowers  of  victory!  there  they 
are,  my  dear,  sure  enough,  and  a  pretty  considerable 


THE  DISIXTERMEXT  AT  ST.  HELENA  457 

liortus  siccus  may  any  man  examine  who  chooses  to  walk 
to  the  Invalides.  The  burial-place  being  thus  agreed 
on,  the  expedition  was  prepared,  and  on  the  7th  July 
the  "  Belle  Poule  "  frigate,  in  company  with  "  La  Favor- 
ite "  corvette,  quitted  Toulon  harbour.  A  couple  of 
steamers,  the  "  Trident "  and  the  "  Ocean,"  escorted  the 
ships  as  far  as  Gibraltar,  and  there  left  them  to  pursue 
their  voyage. 

The  two  ships  quitted  the  harbour  in  the  sight  of  a 
vast  concourse  of  people,  and  in  the  midst  of  a  great 
roaring  of  cannons.  Previous  to  the  departure  of  the 
"  Belle  Poule,"  the  Bishop  of  Frejus  went  on  board,  and 
gave  to  the  cenotaph,  in  which  the  Emperor's  remains 
were  to  be  deposited,  his  episcopal  benediction.  Napo- 
leon's old  friends  and  followers,  the  two  Bertrands, 
Gourgaud,  Emanuel  Las  Cases,  "  companions  in  exile, 
or  sons  of  the  companions  in  exile  of  the  prisoner  of  the 
infame  Hudson,"  says  a  French  writer,  were  passengers 
on  board  the  frigate.  Marchand,  Denis,  Pierret,  No- 
varet,  his  old  and  faithful  servants,  were  likewise  in  the 
vessel.  It  was  commanded  by  his  Royal  Highness 
Francis  Ferdinand  Philip  Louis  Marie  d'Orleans, 
Prince  de  Joinville,  a  young  prince  two-and-twenty 
years  of  age,  who  was  already  distinguished  in  the  ser- 
vice of  his  country  and  king. 

On  the  8th  of  October,  after  a  voyage  of  six-and-sixty 
days,  the  "  Belle  Poule  "  arrived  in  James  Town  har- 
bour; and  on  its  arrival,  as  on  its  departure  from 
France,  a  great  firing  of  guns  took  place.  First,  the 
"  Oreste  "  French  brig-of-war  began  roaring  out  a  sal- 
utation to  the  frigate;  then  the  "Dolphin"  English 
schooner  gave  her  one-and-twenty  guns;  then  the 
frigate   returned   the   compliment   of   the    "Dolphin" 


458     SECOND  FUNERAL  OF  NAPOLEON 

schooner ;  then  she  blazed  out  with  one-and-twenty  guns 
more,  as  a  mark  of  particular  politeness  to  the  shore — 
which  kindness  the  forts  acknowledged  by  similar  deto- 
nations. 

These  little  compliments  concluded  on  both  sides, 
Lieutenant  Middlemore,  son  and  aide-de-camp  of  the 
Governor  of  St.  Helena,  came  on  board  the  French 
frigate,  and  brought  his  father's  best  respects  to  his 
Royal  Highness.  The  Governor  was  at  home  ill,  and 
forced  to  keep  his  room;  but  he  had  made  his  house  at 
James  Town  ready  for  Captain  Joinville  and  his  suite, 
and  begged  that  they  would  make  use  of  it  during  their 
stay. 

On  the  9th,  H.  R.  H.  the  Prince  of  Joinville  put  on 
his  full  uniform  and  landed,  in  company  with  Generals 
Bertrand  and  Gourgaud,  Baron  Las  Cases,  M.  March- 
and,  M.  Coquereau,  the  chaplain  of  the  expedition, 
and  M.  de  Rohan  Chabot,  who  acted  as  chief  mourner. 
All  the  garrison  were  under  arms  to  receive  the  illus- 
trious Prince  and  the  other  members  of  the  expedition — 
who  forthwith  repaired  to  Plantation  House,  and  had  a 
conference  with  the  Governor  regarding  their  mission. 

On  the  10th,  11th,  12th,  these  conferences  continued: 
the  crews  of  the  French  ships  were  permitted  to  come  on 
shore  and  see  the  tomb  of  Napoleon.  Bertrand,  Gour- 
gaud, Las  Cases  wandered  about  the  island  and  revisited 
the  spots  to  which  they  had  been  partial  in  the  lifetime 
of  the  Emperor. 

The  15th  October  was  fixed  on  for  the  day  of  the 
exhumation:  that  day  five-and-twenty  years,  the  Em- 
peror Napoleon  first  set  his  foot  upon  the  island. 

On  the  day  previous  all  things  had  been  made  ready: 
the  grand  coffins  and  ornaments  brought  from  France, 


THE  DISINTERMENT  AT  ST.  HELENA  459 

and  the  articles  necessary  for  the  operation  were  carried 
to  the  valley  of  the  Tomb. 

The  operations  commenced  at  midnight.  The  well- 
known  friends  of  Napoleon  before  named  and  some 
other  attendants  of  his,  the  chaplain  and  his  acolytes, 
the  doctor  of  the  "  Belle  Poule,"  the  captains  of  the 
French  ships,  and  Captain  Alexander  of  the  Engineers, 
the  English  Commissioner,  attended  the  disinterment. 
His  Royal  Highness  Prince  de  Joinville  could  not  be 
present  because  the  workmen  were  under  English  com- 
mand. 

The  men  worked  for  nine  hours  incessantlj^,  when  at 
length  the  earth  was  entirely  removed  from  the  vault, 
all  the  horizontal  strata  of  masonry  demolished,  and  the 
large  slab  which  covered  the  place  where  the  stone  sar- 
cophagus lay,  removed  by  a  crane.  This  outer  coffin  of 
stone  was  perfect,  and  could  scarcely  be  said  to  be  damp. 

"As  soon  as  the  Abbe  Coquereau  had  recited  the 
prayers,  the  coffin  was  removed  with  the  greatest  care, 
and  carried  by  the  engineer-soldiers,  bareheaded,  into  a 
tent  that  had  been  prepared  for  the'  purpose.  After 
the  religious  ceremonies,  the  inner  coffins  were  opened. 
The  outermost  coffin  was  slightly  injured:  then  came 
one  of  lead,  which  was  in  good  condition,  and  enclosed 
two  others— one  of  tin  and  one  of  wood.  The  last  coffin 
was  lined  inside  with  white  satin,  which,  having  become 
detached  by  the  effect  of  time,  had  fallen  upon  the  bodj^ 
and  enveloped  it  like  a  winding-sheet,  and  had  become 
slightly  attached  to  it. 

"  It  is  difficult  to  describe  with  what  anxiety  and  emo- 
tion those  who  were  present  waited  for  the  moment 
which  was  to  expose  to  them  all  that  death  had  left  of 
Napoleon.    Notwithstanding  the  singular  state  of  pres- 


460    SECOND  FUNERAL  OF  NAPOLEON 

ervation  of  the  tomb  and  coffins,  we  could  scarcely  hope 
to  find  anything  but  some  misshapen  remains  of  the  least 
perishable  part  of  the  costume  to  evidence  the  identity 
of  the  body.  But  when  Doctor  Guillard  raised  the 
sheet  of  satin,  an  indescribable  feeling  of  surprise  and 
affection  was  expressed  by  the  spectators,  many  of  whom 
burst  into  tears.  The  Emperor  was  himself  before  their 
eyes!  The  features  of  the  face,  though  changed,  were 
perfectly  recognized;  the  hands  extremely  beautiful; 
his  well-known  costume  had  suffered  but  little,  and  the 
colours  were  easily  distinguished.  The  attitude  itself 
was  full  of  ease,  and  but  for  the  fragments  of  the  satin 
lining  which  covered,  as  with  a  fine  gauze,  several  parts 
of  the  uniform,  we  might  have  believed  we  still  saw  Na- 
poleon before  us  lying  on  his  bed  of  state.  General 
Bertrand  and  M.  Marchand,  who  were  both  present  at 
the  interment,  quickly  pointed  out  the  different  articles 
which  each  had  deposited  in  the  cofRn,  and  remained  in 
the  precise  position  in  which  they  had  previously  de- 
scribed them  to  be. 

"  The  two  inner  coffins  were  carefully  closed  again ; 
the  old  leaden  coffin  was  strongly  blocked  up  with 
wedges  of  wood,  and  both  were  once  more  soldered  up 
with  the  most  minute  precautions,  under  the  direction 
of  Dr.  Guillard.  These  different  operations  being  ter- 
minated, the  ebony  sarcophagus  was  closed  as  well  as  its 
oak  case.  On  delivering  the  key  of  the  ebony  sarcopha- 
gus to  Count  de  Chabot,  the  King's  Commissioner,  Cap- 
tain Alexander  declared  to  him,  in  the  name  of  the  Gov- 
ernor, that  this  coffin,  containing  the  mortal  remains  of 
the  Emperor  Napoleon,  was  considered  as  at  the  dis- 
posal of  the  French  Government  from  that  day,  and 
from  the  moment  at  which  it  should  arrive  at  the  place 


THE  DISINTERMENT  AT  ST.  HELENA  461 

of  embarkation,  towards  which  it  was  about  to  be  sent 
under  the  orders  of  General  Middlemore.  The  King's 
Commissioner  repHed  that  he  was  charged  by  his  Gov- 
ernment, and  in  its  name,  to  accept  the  coffin  from  the 
hands  of  the  British  authorities,  and  that  he  and  the 
other  persons  composing  tlie  French  mission  were  ready 
to  follow  it  to  James  Town,  where  the  Prince  de  Join- 
ville,  superior  commandant  of  the  expedition,  would  be 
ready  to  receive  it  and  conduct  it  on  board  his  frigate. 
A  car  drawn  by  four  horses,  decked  with  funereal  em- 
blems, had  been  prepared  before  the  arrival  of  the  ex- 
pedition, to  receive  the  coffin,  as  well  as  a  pall,  and  all 
the  other  suitable  trappings  of  mourning.  When  the 
sarcophagus  was  placed  on  the  car,  the  whole  was 
covered  with  a  magnificent  imperial  mantle  brought 
from  Paris,  the  four  corners  of  which  were  borne  by 
Generals  Bertrand  and  Gourgaud,  Baron  Las  Cases 
and  M.  Marchand.  At  half-past  three  o'clock  the 
funeral  car  began  to  move,  preceded  by  a  chorister  bear- 
ing the  cross,  and  by  the  Abbe  Coquereau.  M.  de 
Chabot  acted  as  chief  mourner.  All  the  authorities  of 
the  island,  all  the  principal  inliabitants,  and  the  whole 
of  the  garrison,  followed  in  procession  from  the  tomb 
to  the  quay.  But  with  the  exception  of  the  artillerymen 
necessary  to  lead  the  horses,  and  occasionally  support 
the  car  when  descending  some  steep  parts  of  the  way, 
the  places  nearest  the  coffin  were  reserved  for  the  French 
mission.  General  ^liddlemore,  although  in  a  weak  state 
of  health,  persisted  in  following  the  whole  way  on  foot, 
together  with  General  Churchill,  chief  of  the  staff  in 
India,  who  had  arrived  only  two  days  before  from  Bom- 
bay. The  immense  weight  of  the  coffins,  and  the  un- 
evenness  of  the  road,  rendered  the  utmost  carefulness 


462    SECOND  FUNERAL  OF  NAPOLEON 

necessary  throughout  the  whole  distance.  Colonel  Tre- 
lawney  commanded  in  person  the  small  detachment  of 
artillerymen  who  conducted  the  car,  and,  thanks  to  his 
great  care,  not  the  slightest  accident  took  place.  From 
the  moment  of  departure  to  the  arrival  at  the  quay,  the 
cannons  of  the  forts  and  the  '  Belle  Poule '  fired  minute- 
guns.  After  an  hour's  march  the  rain  ceased  for  the 
first  time  since  the  commencement  of  the  operations,  and 
on  arriving  in  sight  of  the  town  we  found  a  brilliant  sky 
and  beautiful  weather.  From  the  morning  the  three 
French  vessels  of  war  had  assumed  the  usual  signs  of 
deep  mourning:  their  yards  crossed  and  their  flags 
lowered.  Two  French  merchantmen,  '  Bonne  Amie ' 
and  '  Indien,'  which  had  been  in  the  roads  for  two  days, 
had  put  themselves  under  the  Prince's  orders,  and  fol- 
lowed during  the  ceremony  all  the  manoeuvres  of  the 
'Belle  Poule.'  The  forts  of  the  town,  and  the  houses 
of  the  consuls,  had  also  their  flags  half-mast  high. 

"  On  arriving  at  the  entrance  of  the  town,  the  troops 
of  the  garrison  and  the  militia  formed  in  two  lines  as  far 
as  the  extremity  of  the  quay.  According  to  the  order 
for  mourning  prescribed  for  the  English  army,  the  men 
had  their  arms  reversed  and  the  oflicers  had  crape  on 
their  arms,  with  their  swords  reversed.  All  the  inhabi- 
tants had  been  kept  away  from  the  line  of  march,  but 
they  lined  the  terraces  commanding  the  town,  and  the 
streets  were  occupied  only  by  the  troops,  the  91st  Regi- 
ment being  on  the  right  and  the  militia  on  the  left.  The 
cortege  advanced  slowly  between  two  ranks  of  soldiers 
to  the  sound  of  a  fimeral  march,  while  the  cannons  of 
the  forts  were  fired,  as  well  as  those  of  the  '  Belle  Poule ' 
and  the  '  Dolphin;  'the  echoes  being  repeated  a  thousand 
times  by  the   rocks   above   James   Town.     After   two 


THE  DISINTERMENT  AT  ST.  HELENA  463 

hours'  march  the  cortege  stopped  at  the  end  of  the  quay, 
where  the  Prince  de  Joinville  had  stationed  himself  at 
the  head  of  the  officers  of  the  three  French  ships  of  war. 
The  greatest  official  honours  had  been  rendered  hj''  the 
English  authorities  to  the  memory  of  the  Emperor — the 
most  striking  testimonials  of  respect  had  marked  the 
adieu  given  by  St.  Helena  to  his  coffin;  and  from  this 
moment  the  mortal  remains  of  the  Emperor  were  about 
to  belong  to  France.  When  the  funeral-car  stopped, 
the  Prince  de  Joinville  advanced  alone,  and  in  presence 
of  all  around,  who  stood  with  their  heads  uncovered,  re- 
ceived, in  a  solemn  manner,  the  imperial  coffin  from  the 
hands  of  General  Middlemore.  His  Royal  Highness 
then  tlianked  the  Governor,  in  the  name  of  France,  for 
all  the  testimonials  of  sympathy  and  respect  with  which 
the  authorities  and  inhabitants  of  St.  Helena  had  sur- 
rounded the  memorable  ceremonial.  A  cutter  had  been 
expressly  prepared  to  receive  the  coffin.  During  the 
embarkation,  which  the  Prince  directed  himself,  the 
bands  played  funeral  airs,  and  all  the  boats  were  sta- 
tioned round  with  their  oars  shipped.  The  moment  the 
sarcophagus  touched  the  cutter,  a  magnificent  royal  flag, 
which  the  ladies  of  James  Town  had  embroidered  for 
the  occasion,  was  unfurled,  and  the  '  Belle  Poule '  imme- 
diately squared  her  masts  and  unfurled  her  colours.  All 
the  manoeuvres  of  the  frigate  were  immediately  fol- 
lowed by  the  other  vessels.  Our  mourning  had  ceased 
with  the  exile  of  Napoleon,  and  the  French  naval  divi- 
sion dressed  itself  out  in  all  its  festal  ornaments  to  re- 
ceive the  imperial  coffin  under  the  French  flag.  The 
sarcophagus  was  covered  in  the  cutter  with  the  imperial 
mantle.  The  Prince  de  Joinville  placed  himself  at  the 
rudder,  Commandant  Guyet  at  the  head  of  the  boat; 


464    SECOND  FUNERAL  OF  NAPOLEON 

Generals  Bertrand  and  Gourgaud,  Baron  Las  Cases,  M. 
Marchand,  and  the  Abbe  Coquereau  occupied  the  same 
places  as  during  the  march.  Count  Chabot  and  Com- 
mandant Hernoux  were  astern,  a  little  in  advance  of 
the  Prince.  As  soon  as  the  cutter  had  pushed  oif  from 
the  quay,  the  batteries  ashore  fired  a  salute  of  twenty- 
one  guns,  and  our  ships  returned  the  salute  with  all  their 
artillery.  Two  other  salutes  were  fired  during  the  pas- 
sage from  the  quay  to  the  frigate ;  the  cutter  advancing 
very  slowly,  and  surrounded  by  the  other  boats.  At 
half -past  six  o'clock  it  reached  the  '  Belle  Poule,'  all  the 
men  being  on  the  yards  with  their  hats  in  their  hands. 
The  Prince  had  had  arranged  on  the  deck  a  chapel, 
decked  with  flags  and  trophies  of  arms,  the  altar  being 
placed  at  the  foot  of  the  mizenmast.  The  coffin,  car- 
ried by  our  sailors,  passed  between  two  ranks  of  officers 
with  drawn  swords,  and  was  placed  on  the  quarter-deck. 
The  absolution  was  pronounced  by  the  Abbe  Coquereau 
the  same  evening.  Next  day,  at  ten  o'clock,  a  solemn 
mass  was  celebrated  on  the  deck,  in  presence  of  the  offi- 
cers and  part  of  the  crews  of  the  ships.  His  Royal 
Highness  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  coffin.  The  cannon 
of  the  '  Favorite  '  and  '  Oreste '  fired  minute-guns  dur- 
ing this  ceremony,  which  terminated  by  a  solemn  abso- 
lution; and  the  Prince  de  Joinville,  the  gentlemen  of 
the  mission,  the  officers,  and  the  premiers  maitres  of  the 
ship,  sprinkled  holy  water  on  the  coffin.  At  eleven,  all 
the  ceremonies  of  the  church  were  accomplished,  all  the 
honours  done  to  a  sovereign  had  been  paid  to  the  mortal 
remains  of  Napoleon.  The  coffin  was  carefully  lowered 
between  decks,  and  placed  in  the  chapelle  ardente  which 
had  been  prepared  at  Toulon  for  its  reception.  At  this 
moment,  the  vessels  fired  a  last  salute  with  all  their  artil- 


THE  DISINTERMENT  AT  ST.  HELENA  4>Q5 

lery,  and  the  frigate  took  in  her  flags,  keeping  up  only 
her  flag  at  the  stern  and  the  royal  standard  at  the  main- 
topgallant-mast.  On  Sunday,  the  18th,  at  eight  in  the 
morning,  the  '  Belle  Poule '  quitted  St.  Helena  with  her 
precious  deposit  on  board. 

"  During-  the  whole  time  that  the  mission  remained  at 
James  Town,  the  best  understanding  never  ceased  to 
exist  between  the  population  of  the  island  and  the 
French.  The  Prince  de  Joinville  and  his  companions 
met  in  all  quarters  and  at  all  times  with  the  great- 
est goodwill  and  the  warmest  testimonials  of  sympathy. 
The  authorities  and  the  inhabitants  must  have  felt,  no 
doubt,  great  regret  at  seeing  taken  away  from  their 
island  the  coffin  that  had  rendered  it  so  celebrated;  but 
they  repressed  their  feelings  with  a  courtesy  that  does 
honour  to  the  frankness  of  their  character." 


II 

ON  THE  VOYAGE  FROM  ST.  HELENA  TO  PARIS 

On  the  18th  October  the  French  frigate  quitted  the  is- 
land with  its  precious  burden  on  board. 

His  Royal  Highness  the  Captain  acknowledged  cor- 
dially the  kindness  and  attention  Mdiich  he  and  his  crew 
had  received  from  the  English  authorities  and  the  in- 
habitants of  the  Island  of  St.  Helena;  nay,  promised 
a  pension  to  an  old  soldier  who  had  been  for  many  years 
the  guardian  of  the  imperial  tomb,  and  went  so  far  as 
to  take  into  consideration  the  petition  of  a  certain  lodg- 
ing-house keeper,  who  prayed  for  a  compensation  for 
the  loss  which  the  removal  of  the  Emperor's  body  would 
occasion  to  her.  And  although  it  was  not  to  be  ex- 
pected that  the  great  French  nation  should  forego  its 
natural  desire  of  recovering  the  remains  of  a  hero  so 
dear  to  it  for  the  sake  of  the  individual  interest  of  the 
landlady  in  question,  it  must  have  been  satisfactory  to 
her  to  find  that  the  peculiarity  of  her  position  was  so 
delicately  appreciated  by  the  august  Prince  who  com- 
manded the  expedition,  and  carried  away  with  him 
animce  dimidium  suce — the  half  of  the  genteel  indepen- 
dence which  she  derived  from  the  situation  of  her  hotel. 
In  a  word,  politeness  and  friendship  could  not  be  car- 
ried farther.  The  Prince's  realm  and  the  landlady's 
were  bound  together  by  the  closest  ties  of  amity.  M. 
Thiers  was  Minister  of  France,  the  great  patron  of  the 

466 


THE  VOYAGE  FROM  ST.  HELEXA  467 

English  alliance.  At  London  M.  Guizot  was  the 
worthy  representative  of  the  French  goodwill  towards 
the  British  people ;  and  the  remark  frequently  made  by 
our  orators  at  public  dinners,  that  "  France  and  Eng- 
land, while  united,  might  defy  the  world,"  was  consid- 
ered as  likely  to  hold  good  for  many  years  to  come, — 
the  union  that  is.  As  for  defying  the  world,  that  was 
neither  here  nor  there;  nor  did  English  politicians  ever 
dream  of  doing  any  such  thing,  except  perhaps  at  the 
tenth  glass  of  port  at  "  Freemason's  Tavern." 

Little,  however,  did  INIrs.  Corbett,  the  Saint  Helena 
landlady,  little  did  his  Royal  Highness  Prince  Ferdi- 
nand Philip  Marie  de  Joinville  know  what  was  going 
on  in  Europe  all  this  time  (when  I  say  in  Europe,  I 
mean  in  Turkey,  Syria,  and  Egypt)  ;  how  clouds,  in 
fact,  were  gathering  upon  what  you  call  the  political 
horizon;  and  how  tempests  were  rising  that  were  to 
blow  to  pieces  our  Anglo-Gallic  temple  of  friendship. 
Oh,  but  it  is  sad  to  think  that  a  single  wicked  old  Turk 
should  be  the  means  of  setting  our  two  Christian  nations 
by  the  ears ! 

Yes,  my  love,  this  disreputable  old  man  had  been  for 
some  time  past  the  object  of  the  disinterested  attention 
of  the  great  sovereigns  of  Europe.  The  Emperor  Nic- 
olas (a  moral  character,  though  following  the  Greek 
superstition,  and  adored  for  his  mildness  and  benevo- 
lence of  disposition ) ,  the  Emperor  Ferdinand,  the  King 
of  Prussia,  and  our  own  gracious  Queen,  had  taken  such 
just  offence  at  his  conduct  and  disobedience  towards  a 
young  and  interesting  sovereign,  whose  authoritj'-  he  had 
disregarded,  whose  fleet  he  had  kidnapped,  whose  fair 
provinces  he  had  pounced  upon,  that  they  determined 
to  come  to  the  aid  of  Abdul  Med j id  the  First,  Em- 


468     SECOND  FUNERAL  OF  NAPOLEON 

peror  of  the  Turks,  and  bring  his  rebellious  vassal  to 
reason.  In  this  project  the  French  nation  was  invited 
to  join;  but  they  refused  the  invitation,  saying,  that  it 
was  necessary  for  the  maintenance  of  the  balance  of 
power  in  Europe  that  his  Highness  IVIehemet  Ali  should 
keep  possession  of  what  by  hook  or  by  crook  he  had  got- 
ten, and  that  they  would  have  no  hand  in  injuring  him. 
But  why  continue  this  argument,  which  you  have  read 
in  the  newspapers  for  many  months  past?  You,  my 
dear,  must  know  as  well  as  I,  that  the  balance  of  power 
in  Europe  could  not  possibly  be  maintained  in  any  such 
way;  and  though,  to  be  sure,  for  the  last  fifteen  years, 
the  progress  of  the  old  robber  has  not  made  much  dif- 
ference to  us  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Russell  Square, 
and  the  battle  of  Nezib  did  not  in  the  least  affect  our 
taxes,  our  homes,  our  institutions,  or  the  price  of 
butcher's  meat,  5^et  there  is  no  knowing  what  might  have 
happened  had  Mehemet  Ali  been  allowed  to  remain 
quietly  as  he  was:  and  the  balance  of  power  in  Europe 
might  have  been — the  deuce  knows  where. 

Here,  then,  in  a  nutshell,  you  have  the  whole  matter 
in  dispute.  While  Mrs.  Corbett  and  the  Prince  de 
Joinville  were  innocently  interchanging  compliments  at 
Saint  Helena, — bang!  bang!  Commodore  Napier  was 
pouring  broadsides  into  Tyre  and  Sidon;  our  gallant 
navy  was  storming  breaches  and  routing  armies;  Colo- 
nel Hodges  had  seized  upon  the  green  standard  of  Ibra- 
him Pacha;  and  the  powder-magazine  of  St.  John  of 
Acre  was  blown  up  sky-high,  with  eighteen  hundred 
Egyptian  soldiers  in  companj^  with  it.  The  French 
said  that  For  Anglais  had  achieved  all  these  successes, 
and  no  doubt  believed  that  the  poor  fellows  at  Acre  were 
bribed  to  a  man. 


THE  VOYAGE  FROM  ST.  HELENA  409 

It  must  have  been  particularly  unpleasant  to  a  high- 
minded  nation  like  the  French — at  the  very  moment 
when  the  Egyptian  affair  and  the  balance  of  Europe 
had  been  settled  in  this  abrupt  way — to  find  out  all  of 
a  sudden  that  the  Pasha  of  Egypt  was  their  dearest 
friend  and  ally.  They  had  suffered  in  the  person  of 
their  friend;  and  though,  seeing  that  the  dispute  was 
ended,  and  the  territory  out  of  his  hand,  they  could  not 
hope  to  get  it  back  for  him,  or  to  aid  him  in  any  sub- 
stantial way,  yet  INIonsieur  Thiers  determined,  just  as 
a  mark  of  politeness  to  the  Pasha,  to  fight  all  Europe 
for  maltreating  him,— all  Europe,  England  included. 
He  was  bent  on  war,  and  an  immense  majority  of  the 
nation  went  with  him.  He  called  for  a  million  of  sol- 
diers, and  would  have  had  them  too,  had  not  the  King 
been  against  the  project  and  delayed  the  completion  of 
it  at  least  for  a  time. 

Of  these  great  European  disputes  Captain  Joinville 
received  a  notification  while  he  was  at  sea  on  board  his 
frigate:  as  we  find  by  the  official  account  which  has 
been  published  of  his  mission. 

"  Some  days  after  quitting  Saint  Helena,"  says  that 
document,  "  the  expedition  fell  in  with  a  ship  coming 
from  Europe,  and  was  thus  made  acquainted  with  the 
warlike  rumours  then  afloat,  by  w^hich  a  collision  with  the 
English  marine  was  rendered  possible.  The  Prince  de 
Joinville  immediately  assembled  the  officers  of  the 
'  Belle  Poule,'  to  deliberate  on  an  event  so  unexpected 
and  important. 

"  The  council  of  war  having  expressed  its  opinion  that 
it  was  necessary  at  all  events  to  prepare  for  an  energetic 
defence,  preparations  were  made  to  place  in  battery  all 
the  guns  that  the  frigate  could  bring  to  bear  against  the 


470    SECOND  FUNERAL  OF  NAPOLEON 

enemy.  The  provisional  cabins  that  had  been  fitted  up 
in  the  battery  were  demoHshed,  the  partitions  removed, 
and,  with  all  the  elegant  furniture  of  the  cabins,  flung 
into  the  sea.  The  Prince  de  Joinville  was  the  first  '  to 
execute  himself,'  and  the  frigate  soon  found  itself 
armed  with  six  or  eight  more  guns. 

"  That  part  of  the  ship  where  these  cabins  had  previ- 
ously been,  went  by  the  name  of  Lacedsemon;  every- 
thing luxurious  being  banished  to  make  way  for  what 
was  useful. 

"  Indeed,  all  persons  who  were  on  board  agree  in  say- 
ing that  Monseigneur  the  Prince  de  Joinville  most 
worthily  acquitted  himself  of  the  great  and  honourable 
mission  which  had  been  confided  to  him.  All  affirm  not 
only  that  the  commandant  of  the  expedition  did  every- 
thing at  St.  Helena  which  as  a  Frenchman  he  was  bound 
to  do  in  order  that  the  remains  of  the  Emperor  should 
receive  all  the  honours  due  to  them,  but  moreover  that 
he  accomplished  his  mission  with  all  the  measured  solem- 
nity, all  the  pious  and  severe  dignity,  that  the  son  of  the 
Emperor  himself  would  have  shown  upon  a  like  occa- 
sion. The  commandant  had  also  comprehended  that 
the  remains  of  the  Emperor  must  never  fall  into  the 
hands  of  the  stranger,  and  being  himself  decided  rather 
to  sink  his  ship  than  to  give  up  his  precious  deposit,  he 
had  inspired  every  one  about  him  with  the  same  energetic 
resolution  that  he  had  himself  taken  '  against  an  extreme 
eventuality!  " 

INIonseigneur,  my  dear,  is  really  one  of  the  finest 
young  fellows  it  is  possible  to  see.  A  tall,  broad- 
chested,  slim-waisted,  brown-faced,  dark-eyed  young 
prince,  with  a  great  beard  (and  other  martial  qualities 
no  doubt)    beyond  his  years.     As  he  strode  into  the 


THE  VOYAGE  FROM  ST.  HELENA  471 

Chapel  of  the  Invahdes  on  Tuesday  at  the  head  of  his 
men,  he  made  no  small  impression,  I  can  tell  you,  upon 
the  ladies  assembled  to  witness  the  ceremony.  Nor  are 
the  crew  of  the  "  Belle  Poule  "  less  agreeable  to  look  at 
than  their  commander.  A  more  clean,  smart,  active, 
well-limbed  set  of  lads  never  "  did  dance  "  upon  the  deck 
of  the  famed  "  Belle  Poule  "  in  the  daj^s  of  her  mem- 
orable combat  with  the  "  Saucy  Arethusa."  "  These 
five  hundred  sailors,"  says  a  French  newspaper,  speak- 
ing of  them  in  the  proper  French  way,  "  sword  in  hand, 
in  the  severe  costume  of  board-ship  {la  severe  tenue  du 
hord),  seemed  proud  of  the  mission  that  they  had  just 
accomplished.  Their  blue  jackets,  their  red  cravats,  the 
turned-down  collars  of  blue  shirts  edged  with  white, 
above  all  their  resolute  appearance  and  martial  air,  gave 
a  favourable  specimen  of  the  present  state  of  our  marine 
— a  marine  of  which  so  much  might  be  expected  and 
from  which  so  little  has  been  required." — Le  Commerce: 
16th  December. 

There  they  were,  sure  enough;  a  cutlass  upon  one 
hip,  a  pistol  on  the  other — a  gallant  set  of  young  men 
indeed.  I  doubt,  to  be  sure,  whether  the  severe  tenue 
du  hord  requires  that  the  seaman  should  be  always  fur- 
nished with  these  ferocious  weapons,  which  in  sundry 
maritime  manoeuvres,  such  as  going  to  sleep  in  your 
hammock  for  instance,  or  twinkling  a  binnacle,  or  luf- 
fing a  marlinspike,  or  keeUiauling  a  maintopgallant  (all 
naval  operations,  my  dear,  which  any  seafaring  novelist 
will  explain  to  you )  —  I  doubt,  I  say,  whether  these 
weapons  are  always  worn  by  sailors,  and  have  heard  that 
they  are  commonly,  and  very  sensibly  too,  locked  up 
until  they  are  wanted.  Take  another  example:  sup- 
pose artillerymen  were  incessantly  compelled  to  walk 


472    SECOND  FUNERAL  OF  NAPOLEON 

about  with  a  pyramid  of  twenty-four-pound  shot  in  one 
pocket,  a  lighted  fuse  and  a  few  barrels  of  gunpowder 
in  the  other — these  objects  would,  as  you  may  imagine, 
greatly  inconvenience  the  artilleryman  in  his  peaceful 
state. 

The  newspaper  writer  is  therefore  most  likely  mis- 
taken in  saying  that  the  seamen  were  in  the  severe  tenue 
du  hord,  or  by  '' hord"  meaning  " ahordage" — which 
operation  they  were  not,  in  a  harmless  church,  hung 
round  with  velvet  and  wax-candles,  and  filled  with 
ladies,  surely  called  upon  to  perform.  Nor  indeed  can 
it  be  reasonably  supposed  that  the  picked  men  of  the 
crack  frigate  of  the  French  navy  are  a  "  good  speci- 
men "  of  the  rest  of  the  French  marine,  any  more  than  a 
cuirassed  colossus  at  the  gate  of  the  Horse  Guards  can 
be  considered  a  fair  sample  of  the  British  soldier  of  the 
line.  The  sword  and  pistol,  however,  had  no  doubt  their 
effect — the  former  was  in  its  sheath,  the  latter  not 
loaded,  and  I  hear  that  the  French  ladies  are  quite  in 
raptures  with  these  charming  lowps-de-mer. 

Let  the  warlike  accoutrements  then  pass-.  It  was 
necessary,  perhaps,  to  strike  the  Parisians  with  awe,  and 
therefore  the  crew  was  armed  in  this  fierce  fashion;  but 
why  should  the  Captain  begin  to  swagger  as  well  as  his 
men?  and  why  did  the  Prince  de  Joinville  lug  out 
sword  and  pistol  so  early?  or  why,  if  he  thought  fit  to 
make  preparations,  should  the  official  journals  brag  of 
them  afterwards  as  proofs  of  his  extraordinary  courage? 

Here  is  the  case.  The  English  Government  makes 
him  a  present  of  the  bones  of  Napoleon :  English  work- 
men work  for  nine  hours  without  ceasing,  and  dig  the 
coffin  out  of  the  ground:  the  English  Commissioner 
hands  over  the  key  of  the  box  to  the  French  representa- 


THE  VOYAGE  FROM   ST.  HELENA  473 

live,  Monsieur  Chabot:  English  horses  carry  the  funeral- 
car  down  to  the  sea-shore,  accompanied  by  the  English 
Governor,  who  has  actually  left  his  bed  to  walk  in  the 
procession  and  to  do  the  French  nation  honour. 

After  receiving  and  acknowledging  these  politenesses, 
the  French  captain  takes  his  charge  on  board,  and  the 
first  thing  we  afterwards  hear  of  him  is  the  determina- 
tion " quil  a  su  faire  passer"  into  all  his  crew,  to  sink 
rather  than  yield  up  the  body  of  the  Emperor  aux  mains 
de  Vetr anger — into  the  hands  of  the  foreigner.  My 
dear  Monseigneur,  is  not  this  /;ar  trop  fort?  Suppose 
"  the  foreigner  "  had  wanted  the  coffin,  could  he  not  have 
kept  it?  Why  show  this  uncalled-for  valour,  this 
extraordinary  alacrity  at  sinking?  Sink  or  blow  your- 
self up  as  much  as  you  please,  but  your  Royal  Highness 
must  see  that  the  genteel  thing  would  have  been  to  wait 
until  you  were  asked  to  do  so,  before  you  offended  good- 
natured,  honest  people,  who — heaven  help  them! — have 
never  shown  themselves  at  all  murderously  inclined 
towards  you.  A  man  knocks  up  his  cabins  forsooth, 
throws  his  tables  and  chairs  overboard,  runs  guns  into 
the  portholes,  and  calls  le  quartier  du  hord  oil  existaient 
ces  chamhres,  Lacedcemon.  Lacedamon!  there  is  a 
province,  O  Prince,  in  your  royal  father's  dominions,  a 
fruitful  parent  of  heroes  in  its  time,  which  would  have 
given  a  much  better  nickname  to  your  quartier  du  hord: 
you  should  have  called  it  Gascony. 

"Sooner  than  strike  we'll  all  ex-pi-er 
On  board  of  the  Bell-e  Pou-le." 

Such  fanfaronnading  is  very  well  on  the  part  of  Tom 
Dibdin,  but  a  person  of  your  Royal  Highness's  "  pious 
and  severe  dignity  "  should  have  been  above  it.     If  you 


474    SECOND  FUNERAL  OF  NAPOLEON 

entertained  an  idea  that  war  was  imminent,  would  it  not 
have  been  far  better  to  have  made  your  preparations  in 
quiet,  and  when  you  found  the  war-rumour  blown  over, 
to  have  said  nothing  about  what  you  intended  to  do? 
Fie  upon  such  cheap  Lacedsemonianism !  There  is  no 
poltroon  in  the  world  but  can  brag  about  what  he  would 
have  done :  however,  to  do  your  Royal  Highness's  nation 
justice,  they  brag  and  fight  too. 

This  narrative,  my  dear  Miss  Smith,  as  you  will  have 
remarked,  is  not  a  simple  tale  merely,  but  is  accom- 
panied by  many  moral  and  pithy  remarks  which  form 
its  chief  value,  in  the  writer's  eyes  at  least,  and  the  above 
account  of  the  sham  Lacedeemon  on  board  the  "Belle 
Poule"  has  a  double-barrelled  morality,  as  I  conceive. 
Besides    justly    reprehending    the    French    propensity 
towards  braggadocio,  it  proves  very  strongly  a  i^oint 
on  which  I  am  the  only  statesman  in  Europe  who  has 
strongly  insisted.     In  the  "  Paris  Sketch  Book  "  it  was 
stated  that  the  French  hate  us.     They  hate  us,  my  dear, 
profoundly  and  desperately,  and  there  never  was  such 
a  hollow  humbug  in  the  world  as  the  French  alliance. 
Men  get  a  character  for  patriotism  in  France  merely  by 
hating  England.     Directly  they  go  into  strong  opposi- 
tion (where,  you  know,  people  are  always  more  patriotic 
than  on  the  ministerial  side),  they  appeal  to  the  people, 
and  have  their  hold  on  the  people  by  hating  England  in 
common  with  them.     Why?     It  is  a  long  story,  and  the 
hatred  may  be  accounted  for  by  many  reasons,  both 
political   and   social.     Any   time   these   eight  hundred 
years  this  ill-will  has  been  going  on,  and  has  been  trans- 
mitted on  the  French  side  from  father  to  son.     On  the 
French  side,  not  on  ours :  we  liave  had  no,  or  few,  defeats 
to  complain  of,  no  invasions  to  make  us  angry ;  but  you 


THE  VOYAGE  FROM  ST.  HELENA  475 

see  that  to  discuss  such  a  period  of  time  would  demand 
a  considerable  number  of  pages,  and  for  the  present  we 
will  avoid  the  examination  of  the  question. 

But  they  hate  us,  that  is  the  long  and  short  of  it ;  and 
you  see  how  this  hatred  has  exploded  just  now,  not  upon 
a  serious  cause  of  difference,  but  upon  an  argument :  for 
what  is  the  Pasha  of  Egypt  to  us  or  them  but  a  mere 
abstract  opinion?  For  the  same  reason  the  Little- 
endians  in  Lilliput  abhorred  the  Big-endians ;  and  I  beg 
you  to  remark  how  his  Royal  Highness  Prince  Ferdi- 
nand Mary,  upon  hearing  that  this  argument  was  in  the 
course  of  debate  between  us,  straightwaj?-  flung  his  fur- 
niture overboard  and  expressed  a  preference  for  sinking 
his  ship  rather  than  yielding  it  to  the  ctranger.  No- 
thing came  of  this  wish  of  his,  to  be  sure ;  but  the  inten- 
tion is  everything.  Unlucky  circumstances  denied  him 
the  power,  but  he  had  the  will. 

Well,  beyond  this  disappointment,  the  Prince  de  Join- 
ville  had  nothing  to  complain  of  during  the  voyage, 
which  terminated  happily  by  the  arrival  of  the  "Belle 
Poule  "  at  Cherbourg,  on  the  30th  of  November,  at  five 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  A  telegraph  made  the  glad 
news  known  at  Paris,  where  the  JNIinister  of  the  Interior, 
Tanneguy-Duchatel  (you  will  read  the  name.  Madam, 
in  the  old  Anglo-French  wars) ,  had  already  made  "  im- 
mense preparations"  for  receiving  the  body  of  Napo- 
leon. 

The  entry  was  fixed  for  the  15th  of  December. 

On  the  8th  of  December  at  Cherbourg  the  body  was 
transferred  from  the  "  Belle  Poule "  frigate  to  the 
*'  Normandie  "  steamer.  On  which  occasion  the  mayor 
of  Cherbourg  deposited,  in  the  name  of  his  town,  a  gold 
laurel  branch  upon  the  coffin— which  was  saluted  by  the 


476    SECOND  FUNERAL  OF  NAPOLEON 

forts  and  dikes  of  the  place  with  one  thousand  guns! 
There  was  a  treat  for  the  inhabitants. 

There  was  on  board  the  steamer  a  splendid  receptacle 
for  the  coffin:  "  a  temple  with  twelve  pillars  and  a  dome 
to  cover  it  from  the  wet  and  moisture,  surrounded  with 
velvet  hangings  and  silver  fringes.  At  the  head  was  a 
gold  cross,  at  the  foot  a  gold  lamp:  other  lamps  were 
kept  constantly  burning  within,  and  vases  of  burning 
incense  were  hung  around.  An  altar,  hung  with  velvet 
and  silver,  was  at  the  mizenmast  of  the  vessel,  and  four 
silver  eagles  at  each  corner  of  the  altar."  It  was  a  com- 
pliment at  once  to  Napoleon  and — excuse  me  for  saying 
so,  but  so  the  facts  are— to  Napoleon  and  to  God 
Almighty. 

Three  steamers,  the  "  Normandie,"  the  "  Veloce,"  and 
the  "  Courrier,"  formed  the  expedition  from  Cherbourg 
to  Havre,  at  which  place  they  arrived  on  the  evening  of 
the  9th  of  December,  and  where  the  "  Veloce  "  was  re- 
placed by  the  Seine  steamer,  having  in  tow  one  of  the 
state-coasters,  which  was  to  fire  the  salute  at  the  moment 
when  the  body  was  transferred  into  one  of  the  vessels 
belonging  to  the  Seine. 

The  expedition  passed  Havre  the  same  night,  and 
came  to  anchor  at  Val  de  la  Haye  on  the  Seine,  three 
leagues  below  Rouen. 

Here  the  next  morning  (10th),  it  was  met  by  the 
flotilla  of  steamboats  of  the  Upper  Seine,  consisting  of 
the  three  "Dorades,"  the  three  "Etoiles,"  the  "  Elbeu- 
vien,"  the  "  Parisien,"  the  "  Parisienne,"  and  the 
"  Zampa."  The  Prince  de  Joinville,  and  the  persons  of 
the  expedition,  embarked  immediately  in  the  flotilla, 
which  arrived  the  same  day  at  Rouen. 

At  Rouen  salutes  were  fired,  the  National  Guard  on 


THE  VOYAGE  FRO^SI  ST.  HELENA  477 

both  sides  of  the  river  paid  mihtary  honours  to  the  body ; 
and  over  the  middle  of  the  suspension-bridge  a  mag- 
nificent cenotaph  was  erected,  decorated  with  flags, 
fasces,  violet  hangings,  and  the  imperial  arms.  Before 
the  cenotaph  the  expedition  stopped,  and  the  absolution 
was  given  by  the  archbishop  and  the  clergy.  After  a 
couple  of  hours'  stay,  the  expedition  proceeded  to  Pont 
de  I'Arche.  On  the  11th  it  reached  Vernon,  on  the  12th 
Mantes,  on  the  13th  ^laisons-sur-Seine. 

"  Everywhere,"  says  the  official  account  from  which 
the  above  particulars  are  borrowed,  "  the  authorities,  the 
National  Guard,  and  the  people  flocked  to  the  passage 
of  the  flotilla,  desirous  to  render  the  honours  due  to  his 
glory,  which  is  the  glory  of  France.  In  seeing  its  hero 
return,  the  nation  seemed  to  have  found  its  Palladium 
again,— the  sainted  relics  of  victory." 

At  length,  on  the  14th,  the  coffin  was  transferred  from 
the  "  Dorade "  steamer  on  board  the  imperial  vessel 
arrived  from  Paris.  In  the  evening,  the  imperial  ves- 
sel arrived  at  Courbevoie,  which  was  the  last  stage  of 
the  journey. 

Here  it  was  that  M.  Guizot  went  to  examine  the 
vessel,  and  was  very  nearly  flung  into  the  Seine,  as  re- 
port goes,  by  the  patriots  assembled  there.  It  is  now 
lying  on  the  river,  near  the  Invalides,  amidst  the  drift- 
ing ice,  whither  the  people  of  Paris  are  flocking  out  to 
see  it. 

The  vessel  is  of  a  very  elegant  antique  form,  and  I 
can  give  you  on  the  Thames  no  better  idea  of  it  than  by 
requesting  you  to  fancy  an  immense  wherry,  of  which 
the  stern  has  been  cut  straight  off*,  and  on  which  a  tem- 
ple on  steps  has  been  elevated.  At  the  figure-head  is 
an  immense  gold  eagle,  and  at  the  stern  is  a  little  ter- 


478    SECOND  FUNERAL  OF  NAPOLEON 

race,  filled  with  evergreens  and  a  profusion  of  banners. 
Upon  pedestals  along  the  sides  of  the  vessel  are  tripods 
in  which  incense  was  burned,  and  underneath  them  are 
garlands  of  flowers  called  here  "immortals."  Four 
eagles  surmount  the  temple,  and  a  great  scroll  or  gar- 
land, held  in  their  beaks,  surrounds  it.  It  is  hung  with 
velvet  and  gold ;  four  gold  caryatides  support  the  entry 
of  it;  and  in  the  midst,  upon  a  large  platform  hung 
with  velvet,  and  bearing  the  imperial  arms,  stood  the 
coffin.  A  steamboat,  carrying  two  hundred  musicians 
playing  funereal  marches  and  military  symphonies,  pre- 
ceded this  magnificent  vessel  to  Courbevoie,  where  a 
funereal  temple  was  erected,  and  "  a  statue  of  Notre 
Dame  de  Grace,  before  which  the  seamen  of  the  '  Belle 
Poule'  inclined  themselves,  in  order  to  thank  her  for 
having  granted  them  a  noble  and  glorious  voyage." 

Early  on  the  morning  of  the  15th  December,  amidst 
clouds  of  incense,  and  thunder  of  cannon,  and  innumer- 
able shouts  of  people,  the  coffin  was  transferred  from 
the  barge,  and  carried  by  the  seamen  of  the  "Belle 
Poule"  to  the  Imperial  Car. 

And  now  having  conducted  our  hero  almost  to  the 
gates  of  Paris,  I  must  tell  you  what  preparations  were 
made  in  the  capital  to  receive  him. 

Ten  days  before  the  arrival  of  the  body,  ajs  you  walked 
across  the  Deputies'  Bridge,  or  over  the  Esplanade  of 
the  Invalides,  you  saw  on  the  bridge  eight,  on  the  es- 
planade thirty-two,  mysterious  boxes  erected,  wherein  a 
couple  of  score  of  sculptors  were  at  work  night  and 
day. 

In  the  middle  of  the  Invalid  Avenue,  there  used  to 
stand,  on  a  kind  of  shabby  fountain  or  pump,  a  bust 


THE  VOYAGE  FROM  ST.  HELENA  479 

of  Lafayette,  crowned  with  some  dirty  wreaths  of  "  im- 
mortals," and  looking  down  at  the  little  streamlet  which 
occasionally  dribbled  below  him.  The  spot  of  ground 
was  now  clear,  and  Lafayette  and  the  pump  had  been 
consigned  to  some  cellar,  to  make  way  for  the  mighty 
procession  that  was  to  pass  over  the  place  of  their  habi- 
tation. 

Strange  coincidence!  If  I  had  been  Mr.  Victor 
Hugo,  my  dear,  or  a  poet  of  any  note,  I  would,  in 
a  few  hours,  have  made  an  impromptu  concerning  that 
Lafayette-crowned  pump,  and  compared  its  lot  now 
to  the  fortune  of  its  patron  some  fifty  years  back.  From 
him  then  issued,  as  from  his  fountain  now,  a  feeble 
dribble  of  pure  words;  then,  as  now,  some  faint  circle 
of  disciples  were  willing  to  admire  him.  Certainly  in  the 
midst  of  the  war  and  storm  without,  this  pure  fount  of 
eloquence  went  dribbling,  dribbling  on,  till  of  a  sudden 
the  revolutionary  workmen  knocked  down  statue  and 
fountain,  and  the  gorgeous  imperial  cavalcade  trampled 
over  the  spot  where  they  stood. 

As  for  the  Champs  Elysees,  there  was  no  end  to  the 
preparations :  the  first  day  you  saw  a  couple  of  hundred 
scaffoldings  erected  at  intervals  between  the  handsome 
gilded  gas-lamps  that  at  present  ornament  that  avenue; 
next  day,  all  these  scaffoldings  were  filled  with  brick  and 
mortar.  Presently,  over  the  bricks  and  mortar  rose  pedi- 
ments of  statues,  legs  of  urns,  legs  of  goddesses,  legs  and 
bodies  of  goddesses,  legs,  bodies,  and  busts  of  goddesses. 
Finally,  on  the  13th  December,  goddesses  complete.  On 
the  14th,  they  were  painted  marble-colour;  and  the  base- 
ments of  wood  and  canvas  on  which  they  stood  were 
made  to  resemble  the  same  costly  material.  The  fu- 
nereal urns  were  ready  to  receive  the  frankincense  and 


480    SECOND  FUNERAL  OF  NAPOLEON 

precious  odours  which  were  to  burn  in  them.  A  vast 
number  of  white  columns  stretched  down  the  avenue, 
each  bearing  a  bronze  buckler  on  which  was  written,  in 
gold  letters,  one  of  the  victories  of  the  Emperor,  and 
each  decorated  with  enormous  imperial  flags.  On  these 
columns  golden  eagles  were  placed ;  and  the  newspapers 
did  not  fail  to  remark  the  ingenious  position  in  which 
the  royal  birds  had  been  set :  for  while  those  on  the  right- 
hand  side  of  the  way  had  their  heads  turned  towards 
the  procession,  as  if  to  watch  its  coming,  those  on  the 
left  were  looking  exactly  the  other  way,  as  if  to  regard 
its  progress.  Do  not  fancy  I  am  joking:  this  point  was 
gravely  and  emphatically  urged  in  many  newspapers; 
and  I  do  believe  no  mortal  Frenchman  ever  thought  it 
anything  but  sublime. 

Do  not  interrupt  me,  sweet  INIiss  Smith.  I  feel  that 
you  are  angry.  I  can  see  from  here  the  pouting  of  your 
lips,  and  know  what  3'ou  are  going  to  say.  You  are 
going  to  say,  "  I  will  read  no  more  of  this  Mr.  Tit- 
marsh;  there  is  no  subject,  however  solemn,  but  he  treats 
it  with  flippant  irreverence,  and  no  character,  however 
great,  at  whom  he  does  not  sneer." 

Ah,  my  dear!  you  are  young  now  and  enthusiastic; 
and  your  Titmarsh  is  old,  very  old,  sad,  and  grey- 
headed. I  have  seen  a  poor  mother  buy  a  halfpenny 
wreath  at  the  gate  of  Montmartre  burying-ground,  and 
go  with  it  to  her  little  child's  grave,  and  hang  it  there 
over  the  little  humble  stone;  and  if  ever  you  saw  me 
scorn  the  mean*  ofl*ering  of  the  poor  shabby  creature, 
I  will  give  you  leave  to  be  as  angry  as  you  will.  They 
say  that  on  the  passage  of  Napoleon's  coflin  down  the 
Seine,  old  soldiers  and  country  people  walked  miles 
from  their  villages  just  to  catch  a  sight  of  the  boat  which 


THE  VOYAGE  FROM  ST.  HELENA  481 

carried  his  body,  and  to  kneel  down  on  the  shore  and 
pray  for  him.  God  forbid  that  we  should  quarrel  with 
such  prayers  and  sorrow,  or  question  their  sincerity. 
Something  great  and  good  must  have  been  in  this  man, 
something  loving  and  kindly,  that  has  kept  his  name 
so  cherished  in  the  popular  memory,  and  gained  him 
such  lasting  reverence  and  affection. 

But,  Madam,  one  may  respect  the  dead  without  feel- 
ing awe-stricken  at  the  plumes  of  the  hearse;  and  I  see 
no  reason  why  one  should  sympathize  with  the  train  of 
mutes  and  undertakers,  however  deep  may  be  their 
mourning.  Look,  I  pray  you,  at  the  manner  in  which  the 
French  nation  has  performed  Napoleon's  funeral.  Time 
out  of  mind,  nations  have  raised,  in  memory  of  their 
heroes,  august  mausoleums,  grand  pyramids,  splendid 
statues  of  gold  or  marble,  sacrificing  whatever  they  had 
that  was  most  costly  and  rare,  or  that  was  most  beautiful 
in  art,  as  tokens  of  their  respect  and  love  for  the  dead 
person.  What  a  fine  example  of  this  sort  of  sacrifice 
is  that  (recorded  in  a  book  of  which  Simplicity  is  the 
great  characteristic)  of  the  poor  woman  who  brought 
her  pot  of  precious  ointment — her  all,  and  laid  it  at  the 
feet  of  the  Object  which,  upon  earth,  she  most  loved  and 
respected.  "  Economists  and  calculators "  there  were 
even  in  those  days  who  quarrelled  with  the  manner  in 
which  the  poor  woman  lavished  so  much  "  capital; "  but 
you  will  remember  how  nobly  and  generously  the  sac- 
rifice was  appreciated,  and  how  the  economists  were 
put  to  shame. 

With  regard  to  the  funeral  ceremony  that  has  just 

been  performed  here,  it  is  said  that  a  famous  public 

,  personage    and    statesman,    Monsieur    Thiers    indeed, 

spoke  with  the  bitterest  indignation  of  the  general  style 


482    SECOND  FUNERAL  OF  NAPOLEON 

of  the  preparations,  and  of  their  mean  and  tawdry  char- 
acter. He  would  have  had  a  pomp  as  magnificent,  he 
said,  as  that  of  Rome  at  the  triumph  of  AureHan:  he 
would  have  decorated  the  bridges  and  avenues  through 
which  the  procession  was  to  pass,  with  the  costliest  mar- 
bles and  the  finest  works  of  art,  and  have  had  them  to 
remain  there  for  ever  as  monuments  of  the  great 
funeral. 

The  economists  and  calculators  might  here  interpose 
with  a  great  deal  of  reason;  for,  indeed,  there  was  no 
reason  why  a  nation  should  impoverish  itself  to  do 
honour  to  the  memory  of  an  individual  for  whom,  after 
all,  it  can  feel  but  a  qualified  enthusiasm:  but  it  surely 
might  have  employed  the  large  sum  voted  for  the  pur- 
pose more  wisely  and  generously,  and  recorded  its 
respect  for  Napoleon  by  some  worthy  and  lasting  me- 
morial, rather  than  have  erected  yonder  thousand  vain 
heaps  of  tinsel,  paint,  and  plaster,  that  are  already 
cracking  and  crumbling  in  the  frost,  at  three  days  old. 

Scarcely  one  of  the  statues,  indeed,  deserves  to  last  a 
month:  some  are  odious  distortions  and  caricatures, 
which  never  should  have  been  allowed  to  stand  for  a  mo- 
ment. On  the  very  day  of  the  fete,  the  wind  was  shak- 
ing the  canvas  pedestals,  and  the  flimsy  wood-work  had 
begun  to  gape  and  give  way.  At  a  little  distance,  to 
be  sure,  you  could  not  see  the  cracks;  and  pedestals  and 
statues  looked  like  marble.  At  some  distance  you  could 
not  tell  but  that  the  wreaths  and  eagles  were  gold  em- 
broidery, and  not  gilt  paper— the  great  tricolour  flags 
damask,  and  not  striped  calico.  One  would  think  that 
these  sham  splendours  betokened  sham  respect,  if  one 
had  not  known  that  the  name  of  Napoleon  is  held  in 
real  reverence,  and  observed  somewhat  of  the  character 


THE  VOYAGE  FROM  ST.  HELENA  483 

of  the  nation.  Real  feelings  they  have,  but  they  distort 
them  by  exaggeration;  real  courage,  which  they  render 
ludicrous  by  intolerable  braggadocio;  and  I  think  the 
above  official  account  of  the  Prince  de  Joinville's  pro- 
ceedings, of  the  manner  in  which  the  Emperor's  remains 
have  been  treated  in  their  voyage  to  the  capital,  and  of 
tlie  preparations  made  to  receive  him  in  it,  will  give  my 
dear  JNIiss  Smith  some  means  of  understanding  the  social 
and  moral  condition  of  this  worthy  people  of  France. 


Ill 

ON   THE   FUNERAL    CEREMONY 

Shall  I  tell  you,  my  dear,  that  when  Fran9ois  woke 
me  at  a  very  early  hour  on  this  eventful  morning,  while 
the  keen  stars  were  still  glittering  overhead,  a  half- 
moon,  as  sharp  as  a  razor,  beaming  in  the  frosty  sky, 
and  a  wicked  north  wind  blowing,  that  blew  the  blood 
out  of  one's  fingers  and  froze  your  leg  as  you  put  it  out 
of  bed;— shall  I  tell  you,  my  dear,  that  when  Fran9ois 
called  me,  and  said,  "  Via  vot'  cafe.  Monsieur  Titemasse, 
buvez-le,  tiens,  il  est  tout  chaud,"  I  felt  myself,  after 
imbibing  the  hot  breakfast,  so  comfortable  under  three 
blankets  and  a  mackintosh,  that  for  at  least  a  quarter- 
of-an-hour  no  man  in  Europe  could  say  whether  Tit- 
marsh  would  or  would  not  be  present  at  the  burial  of  the 
Emperor  Napoleon. 

Besides,  my  dear,  the  cold,  there  was  another  reason 
for  doubting.  Did  the  French  nation,  or  did  they  not, 
intend  to  offer  up  some  of  us  English  over  the  imperial 
grave?  And  were  the  games  to  be  concluded  by  a  mas- 
sacre? It  was  said  in  the  newspapers  that  Lord  Gran- 
ville had  despatched  circulars  to  all  the  English  resident 
in  Paris,  begging  them  to  keep  their  homes.  The 
French  journals  announced  this  news,  and  warned  us 
charitably  of  the  fate  intended  for  us.  Had  Lord 
Granville  written?  Certainly  not  to  me.  Or  had  he 
written  to  all  except  me?    And  was  I  the  victim— ihe 

484 


ON  THE  FUNERAL  CEREMONY      485 

doomed  one? — to  be  seized  directly  I  showed  my  face  in 
the  Champs  Elysees,  and  torn  in  pieces  by  French  Pa- 
triotism to  the  frantic  chorus  of  the  "INIarseillaise?" 
Depend  on  it,  Madam,  that  high  and  low  in  this  city  on 
Tuesday  were  not  altogether  at  their  ease,  and  that  the 
bravest  felt  no  small  tremor!  And  be  sure  of  this,  that 
as  his  Majesty  Louis  Philippe  took  his  night-cap  off  his 
royal  head  that  morning,  he  prayed  heartily  that  he 
might,  at  night,  put  it  on  in  safety. 

Well,  as  my  companion  and  I  came  out  of  doors, 
being  bound  for  the  Church  of  the  Invalides,  for  which  a 
Deputy  had  kindly  furnished  us  with  tickets,  we  saw 
the  very  prettiest  sight  of  the  whole  daj^  and  I  can't 
refrain  from  mentioning  it  to  my  dear,  tender-hearted 
JNIiss  Smith. 

In  the  same  house  where  I  live  (but  about  five  storeys 
nearer  the  ground),  lodges  an  English  family,  con- 
sisting of — 1.  A  great-grandmother,  a  hale,  handsome 
old  lady  of  seventy,  the  very  best-dressed  and  neatest 
old  lady  in  Paris.  2.  A  grandfather  and  grandmother, 
tolerably  young  to  bear  that  title.  3.  A  daughter.  And 
4.  Two  little  great-grand,  or  grand-children,  that  may 
be  of  the  age  of  three  and  one,  and  belong  to  a  son  and 
daughter  w^ho  are  in  India.  The  grandfather,  who  is 
as  proud  of  his  wife  as  he  was  thirty  years  ago  when  he 
married,  and  pays  her  compliments  still  twice  or  thrice 
in  a  day,  and  when  he  leads  her  into  a  room  looks  round 
at  the  persons  assembled,  and  says  in  his  heart,  "  Here, 
gentlemen,  here  is  my  wife— show  me  such  another 
woman  in  England,"— this  gentleman  had  hired  a  room 
on  the  Champs  Elysees,  for  he  would  not  have  his  wife 
catch  cold  by  exposing  her  to  the  balconies  in  the  open 
air.  . 


486    SECOND  FUNERAL  OF  NAPOLEON 

When  I  came  to  the  street,  I  found  the  familj' 
assembled  in  the  following  order  of  march:— 

No.  1,  the  great-grandmother  walking  daintily  along, 

supported  by  No.  3,  her  granddaughter. 

A  nurse  carrying  No.  4  junior,  who  was  sound  asleep: 

and  a  huge  basket  containing  saucepans,  bottles  of 
milk,  parcels  of  infants'  food,  certain  dimity  napkins, 
a  child's  coral,  and  a  little  horse  belonging  to  No.  4 
senior. 

A  servant  bearing  a  basket  of  condiments. 

No.  2,  grandfather,  spick  and  span,  clean  shaved,  hat 

brushed,  white  buckskin  gloves,  bamboo  cane,  brown 
great-coat,  walking  as  upright  and  solemn  as  may  be, 
having  his  lady  on  his  arm. 

No.  4,  senior,  with  mottled  legs  and  a  tartan  costume, 

who  was  frisking  about  between  grandpapa's  legs, 
who  heartily  wished  him  at  home. 

"  My  dear,"  his  face  seemed  to  say  to  his  lady,  "  I 
think  you  might  have  left  the  little  things  in  the  nursery, 
for  we  shall  have  to  squeeze  through  a  terrible  crowd  in 
the  Champs  Elysees." 

The  lady  was  going  out  for  a  day's  pleasure,  and  her 
face  was  full  of  care :  she  had  to  look  first  after  her  old 
mother  who  was  walking  ahead,  then  after  No.  4  junior 
with  the  nurse — he  might  fall  into  all  sorts  of  danger, 
wake  up,  cry,  catch  cold;  nurse  might  slip  down,  or 
heaven  knows  what.  Then  she  had  to  look  her  husband 
in  the  face,  who  had  gone  to  such  expense  and  been  so 
kind  for  her  sake,  and  make  that  gentleman  believe  she 
was  thoroughly  happy;  and,  finally,  she  had  to  keep  an 
eye  upon  No.  4  senior,  who,  as  she  was  perfectly  certain, 
was  about  in  two  minutes  to  be  lost  for  ever,  or  trampled 
to  pieces  in  the  crowd. 


ON  THE  FUNERAL  CEREMONY      487 

These  events  took  place  in  a  quiet  little  street  leading 
into  the  Champs  Elysees,  the  entry  of  which  we  had 
almost  reached  by  this  time.  The  four  detachments 
above  described,  which  had  been  straggling  a  little  in 
their  passage  down  the  street,  closed  up  at  the  end  of  it, 
and  stood  for  a  moment  huddled  together.  No.  3,  Miss 
X — ,  began  speaking  to  her  companion  the  great-grand- 
mother. 

"  Hush,  my  dear,"  said  that  old  lady,  looking  round 
alarmed  at  her  daughter.  "Speak  French."  And  she 
straightway  began  nervously  to  make  a  speech  which 
she  supposed  to  be  in  that  language,  but  wliich  was 
as  much  like  French  as  Iroquois.  The  whole  secret  was 
out:  you  could  read  it  in  the  grandmother's  face,  who 
was  doing  all  she  could  to  keep  from  crying,  and  Jooked 
as  frightened  as  she  dared  to  look.  The  two  elder  ladies 
had  settled  between  them  that  there  was  going  to  be  a 
general  English  slaughter  that  day,  and  had  brought 
the  children  with  them,  so  that  they  might  all  be  mur- 
dered in  company. 

God  bless  you,  O  women,  moist-eyed  and  tender- 
hearted! In  those  gentle  silly  tears  of  yours  there  is 
something  touches  one,  be  they  never  so  foolish.  I  don't 
think  there  were  many  such  natural  drops  shed  that  day 
as  those  which  just  made  their  appearance  in  the  grand- 
mother's eyes,  and  then  went  back  again  as  if  they  had 
been  ashamed  of  themselves,  while  the  good  lady  and  her 
little  troop  walked  across  the  road.  Think  how  happy 
she  will  be  when  night  comes,  and  there  has  been  no 
murder  of  English,  and  the  brood  is  all  nestled  under 
her  wings  sound  asleep,  and  she  is  lying  awake  thanking 
God  that  the  day  and  its  pleasures  and  pains  are  over. 
Whilst  we  were  considering  these  things,  the  grand- 


488    SECOND  FUNERAL  OF  NAPOLEON 

father  had  suddenly  elevated  No.  4  senior  upon  his  left 
shoulder,  and  I  saw  the  tartan  hat  of  that  young  gentle- 
man, and  the  bamboo-cane  which  had  been  transferred 
to  him,  high  over  the  heads  of  the  crowd  on  the  opposite 
side  through  which  the  party  moved. 

After  this  little  procession  had  passed  away — you 
may  laugh  at  it,  but  upon  my  word  and  conscience,  JNIiss 
Smith,  I  saw  nothing  in  the  course  of  the  day  which 
affected  me  more — after  this  little  procession  had  passed 
away,  the  other  came,  accompanied  by  gun-banging, 
flag-waving,  incense-burning,  trumpets  pealing,  drums 
rolling,  and  at  the  close,  received  by  the  voice  of  six 
hundred  choristers,  sweetly  modulated  to  the  tones  of 
fifteen  score  of  fiddlers.  Then  j^ou  saw  horse  and  foot, 
jack-boots  and  bearskin,  cuirass  and  bayonet,  national 
guard  and  line,  marshals  and  generals  all  over  gold,  smart 
aides-de-camp  galloping  about  like  mad,  and  high  in 
the  midst  of  all,  riding  on  his  golden  buckler,  Solomon 
in  all  his  glory,  forsooth — Imperial  C^sar,  with  his 
crown  over  his  head,  laurels  and  standards  waving  about 
his  gorgeous  chariot,  and  a  million  of  people  looking  on 
in  wonder  and  awe. 

His  Majesty  the  Emperor  and  King  reclined  on  his 
shield,  with  his  head  a  little  elevated.  His  Majesty's 
skull  is  voluminous,  his  forehead  broad  and  large.  We 
remarked  that  his  Imperial  JNIajesty's  brow  was  of  a 
yellowish  colour,  which  appearance  was  also  visible  about 
the  orbits  of  the  eyes.  He  kept  his  eyelids  constantly 
closed,  by  which  we  had  the  opportunity  of  observing 
that  the  upper  lids  were  garnished  with  eyelashes. 
Years  and  climate  have  affected  upon  the  face  of  this 
great  monarch  only  a  trifling  alteration;  we  may  say, 


ON  THE  FUNERAL  CEREMONY      489 

indeed,  that  Time  has  touched  his  Imperial  and  Royal 
Majesty  with  the  lightest  feather  in  his  wing.  In  the 
nose  of  the  Conqueror  of  Austerlitz  we  remarked  very 
little  alteration:  it  is  of  the  beautiful  shape  which  we 
remember  it  possessed  five-and-twenty  years  since,  ere 
unfortunate  circumstances  induced  him  to  leave  us  for 
a  while.  The  nostril  and  the  tube  of  the  nose  appear  to 
have  undergone  some  slight  alteration,  but  in  examin- 
ing a  beloved  object  the  eye  of  affection  is  perhaps  too 
critical.  Vive  VEinpereur!  the  soldier  of  Marengo  is 
among  us  again.  His  lips  are  thinner,  perhaps,  than 
they  were  before!  how  white  his  teeth  are!  you  can  just 
see  three  of  them  pressing  his  under  lip;  and  pray  re- 
mark the  fulness  of  his  cheeks  and  the  round  contour 
of  his  chin.  Oh,  those  beautiful  white  hands!  many  a 
time  have  they  patted  the  cheek  of  poor  Josephine,  and 
played  with  the  black  ringlets  of  her  hair.  She  is  dead 
now,  and  cold,  poor  creature;  and  so  are  Hortense  and 
bold  Eugene,  "  than  whom  the  world  never  saw  a  curtier 
knight,"  as  was  said  of  King  Arthur's  Sir  Lancelot. 
What  a  day  would  it  have  been  for  those  three  could 
they  but  have  lived  until  now,  and  seen  their  hero  re- 
turning !  Where's  Ney  ?  His  wife  sits  looking  out  from 
M.  Flahaut's  window  yonder,  but  the  bravest  of  the 
brave  is  not  with  her.  Murat  too  is  absent:  honest 
Joachim  loves  the  Emperor  at  heart,  and  repents  that 
he  was  not  at  Waterloo :  who  knows  but  that  at  the  sight 
of  the  handsome  swordsman  those  stubborn  English 
"canaille"  would  have  given  way?  A  king,  Sire,  is, 
you  know,  the  greatest  of  slaves — State  affairs  of  con- 
sequence—his Majesty  the  King  of  Naples  is  detained 
no  doubt.  When  we  last  saw  the  King,  however,  and 
his  Highness  the  Prince  of  Elchingen,  they  looked  to 


490    SECOND  FUNERAL  OF  NAPOLEON 

have  as  good  health  as  ever  they  had  in  then-  hves,  and 
we  heard  each  of  them  calmly  calling  out  "Fire!"  as 
they  have  done  in  numberless  battles  before. 

Is  it  possible?  can  the  Emperor  forget?  We  don't 
like  to  break  it  to  him,  but  has  he  forgotten  all  about 
the  farm  at  Pizzo,  and  the  garden  of  the  Observatory? 
Yes,  truly:  there  he  lies  on  his  golden  shield,  never 
stirring,  never  so  much  as  lifting  his  eyelids,  or  opening 
his  lips  any  wider. 

O  vanitas  vanitatum!  Here  is  our  Sovereign  in  all 
his  glory,  and  they  fired  a  thousand  guns  at  Cherbourg 
and  never  woke  him! 

However,  we  are  advancing  matters  by  several 
hours,  and  you  must  give  just  as  much  credence  as  you 
please  to  the  subjoined  remarks  concerning  the  Pro- 
cession, seeing  that  your  humble  servant  could  not 
possibly  be  present  at  it,  being  bound  for  the  church 
elsewhere. 

Programmes,  however,  have  been  published  of  the 
affair,  and  your  vivid  fancy  will  not  fail  to  give  life  to 
them,  and  the  whole  magnificent  train  will  pass  before 
you. 

Fancy  then,  that  the  guns  are  fired  at  Neuilly:  the 
body  landed  at  daybreak  from  the  funereal  barge,  and 
transferred  to  the  car ;  and  fancy  the  car,  a  huge  Jugger- 
naut of  a  machine,  rolling  on  four  wheels  of  an  antique 
shape,  which  supported  a  basement  adorned  with  golden 
eagles,  banners,  laurels,  and  velvet  hangings.  Above 
the  hangings  stand  twelve  golden  statues  with  raised 
arms  supporting  a  huge  shield,  on  which  the  coffin  lay. 
On  the  coffin  was  the  imperial  crown,  covered  w5th 
violet  velvet  crape,   and  the  whole  vast  machine  was 


ON  THE'  FUNERAL  CEREMONY      491 

drawn  by  horses  in  superb  housings,  led  by  valets  in  the 
imperial  livery. 

Fancy  at  the  head  of  the  procession  first  of  all— 

The  Gendarmerie  of  the  Seine,  with  their  trumpets  and  Colonel. 

The  Municipal  Guard  (horse),  with  their  trumpets,  standard, 
and  Colonel. 

Two  squadrons  of  the  7th  Lancers,  with  Colonel,  standard,  and 
music. 

The  Commandant  of  Paris  and  his  Staff. 

A  battalion  of  Infantry  of  the  Line,  with  their  flag,  sappers, 
drums,  music,  and  Colonel. 

The  Municipal  Guard  (foot),  with  flag,  drums,  and  Colonel. 

The  Sapper-pumpers,  with  ditto. 

Then  picture  to  yourself  more  squadrons  of  Lancers  and  Cuiras- 
siers. The  General  of  the  Division  and  his  Staff";  all  officers 
of  all  arms  employed  at  Paris,  and  unattached ;  the  Military 
School  of  Saint  Cyr,  the  Polytechnic  School,  the  School  of  the 
Etat-Major;  and  the  Professors  and  Staff'  of  each.  Go  on 
imagining  more  battalions  of  Infantry,  of  Artillery,  com- 
panies of  Engineers,  squadrons  of  Cuirassiers,  ditto  of  the 
Cavalry,  of  the  National  Guard,  and  the  first  and  second 
legions  of  ditto. 

Fancy  a  carriage,  containing  the  Chaplain  of  the  St.  Helena  ex- 
pedition, the  only  clerical  gentleman  that  formed  a  part  of 
the  procession. 

Fancy  you  hear  the  funereal  music,  and  then  figure  in  your 
mind's  eye — 

The  Emperor's  Charger,  that  is,  Napoleon's  own  saddle  and 
bridle  (when  First  Consul)  upon  a  white  horse.  The  saddle 
(which  has  been  kept  ever  since  in  the  Garde  Meuble  of  the 
Crown)  is  of  amaranth  velvet,  embroidered  in  gold:  the  hol- 
sters and  housings  are  of  the  same  rich  material.  On  them 
you  remark  the  attributes  of  War,  Commerce,  Science  and 
Art.     The  bits  and  stirrups  are  silver-gilt  chased.     Over  the 


492    SECOND  FUNERAL  OF  NAPOLEON 

stirrups,  two  eagles  were  placed  at  the  time  of  the  empire. 
The  horse  was  covered  with  a  violet  crape  embroidered  with 
golden  bees. 
After  this,  came  more  Soldiers,  General  Officers,  Sub-Officers, 
Marshals,  and  what  was  said  to  be  the  prettiest  sight  almost 
of  the  whole,  the  banners  of  the  eighty-six  Departments  of 
France.  These  are  due  to  the  invention  of  M.  Thiers,  and 
were  to  have  been  accompanied  by  federates  from  each  De- 
partment. But  the  Government  very  wisely  mistrusted  this 
and  some  other  projects  of  Monsieur  Thiers;  and  as  for  a 
federation,  my  dear,  it  has  been  tried.  Next  comes — 
His  Royal  Highness  the  Prince  de  Joinville. 

The  500  sailors  of  the  "  Belle  Poule  "  marching  in  double  file  on 
each  side  of 

THE  CAR. 
[Hush!  the  enormous  crowd  thrills  as  it  passes,  and  only  some 
few  voices  cry  Vive  V  Empereur!     Shining  golden  in  the  frosty 
sun — with  hundreds  of  thousands  of  e3^es   upon  it,  from  houses 
and  housetops,  from  balconies,  black,  purple,  and  tricolour,  from 
tops  of  leafless  trees,  from  behind  long  lines  of  glittering  bay- 
onets under  schakos  and  bearskin  caps,   from  behind  the  Line 
and  the  National  Guard  again,  pushing,  struggling,  heav- 
ing, panting,  eager,  the  heads  of  an  enormous  multi- 
tude stretching  out  to  meet  and  follow  it,  amidst 
long  avenues  of  columns  and  statues  gleam- 
ing   white,    of    standards    rainbow-col- 
oured,  of   golden   eagles,   of   pale 
funereal  urns,  of  discharging 
odours  amidst  huge  vol- 
umes of  pitch-black 
smoke, 
THE   GREAT   IINIPERIAL   CHARIOT 

EOLLS    MAJESTICALLY    ON. 

The  cords  of  the  pall  are  held  by  two  Marshals,  an  Admiral  and 
General  Bcrtrand;  who  are  followed  by  — 


ON  THE  FUNERAL  CEREMONY      493 

The  Prefects  of  the  Seine  and  Police,  &c. 

The  Mayors  of  Paris,  &c. 

The  Members  of  the  Old  Guard,  &c. 

A  Squadron  of  Light  Dragoons,  &c. 

Lieutenant-General  Schneider,  &c. 

More  cavalry,  more  infantry,  more  artillery,  more  everybody; 
and  as  the  procession  passes,  the  Line  and  the  National  Guard 
forming  line  on  each  side  of  the  road  fall  in  and  follow  it,  until 
it  arrives  at  the  Church  of  the  Invalides,  where  the  last  honours 
are  to  be  paid  to  it.] 

Among  the  company  assembled  under  the  dome  of 
that  edifice,  the  casual  observer  would  not  perhaps  have 
remarked  a  gentleman  of  the  name  of  Michael  Angelo 
Titmarsh,  who  nevertheless  was  there.  But  as,  my  dear 
Miss  Smith,  the  descriptions  in  this  letter,  from  the 
words  in  page  410,  line  11— the  imrty  moved — up  to  the 
words  yaid  to  it,  on  this  page,  have  purely  emanated 
from  your  obedient  servant's  fancy,  and  not  from  his 
personal  observation  (for  no  being  on  earth,  except  a 
newspaper  reporter,  can  be  in  two  places  at  once),  per- 
mit me  now  to  communicate  to  you  what  little  circum- 
stances fell  under  my  own  particular  view  on  the  day 
of  the  15th  of  December. 

As  we  came  out,  the  air  and  the  buildings  round  about 
were  tinged  with  purple,  and  the  clear  sharp  half -moon 
before-mentioned  was  still  in  the  sky,  where  it  seemed 
to  be  lingering  as  if  it  would  catch  a  peep  of  the  com- 
mencement of  the  famous  procession.  The  Ai*c  de 
Triomphe  was  shining  in  a  keen  frosty  sunshine,  and 
looking  as  clean  and  rosy  as  if  it  had  just  made  its 
toilette.  The  canvas  or  pasteboard  image  of  Napoleon, 
of  which  only  the  gilded  legs  had  been  erected  the  night 
previous,  was  now  visible,  body,  head,  crown,  sceptre 


494    SECOND  FUNERAL  OF  NAPOLEON 

and  all,  and  made  an  imposing  show.  Long  gilt  banners 
were  flaunting  about,  with  the  imperial  cipher  and  eagle, 
and  the  names  of  the  battles  and  victories  glittering  in 
gold.  The  long  avenues  of  the  Champs  Etysees  had  been 
covered  with  sand  for  the  convenience  of  the  great  pro- 
cession that  was  to  tramp  across  it  that  day.  Hundreds 
of  people  were  marching  to  and  fro,  laughing,  chatter- 
ing, singing,  gesticulating  as  happy  Frenchmen  do. 
There  is  no  pleasanter  sight  than  a  French  crowd  on  the 
alert  for  a  festival,  and  nothing  more  catching  than 
their  good-humour.  As  for  the  notion  which  has  been 
put  forward  by  some  of  the  opposition  newspapers  that 
the  populace  were  on  this  occasion  unusually  solemn  or 
sentimental,  it  w^ould  be  paying  a  bad  compliment  to  the 
natural  gaiety  of  the  nation,  to  say  that  it  w^as,  on  the 
morning  at  least  of  the  15th  of  December,  affected  in 
any  such  absurd  way.  Itinerant  merchants  were  shouting 
out  lustily  their  commodities  of  segars  and  brandy,  and 
the  weather  was  so  bitter  cold,  that  they  could  not  fail 
to  find  plenty  of  customers.  Carpenters  and  workmen 
were  still  making  a  huge  banging  and  clattering  among 
the  sheds  which  were  built  for  the  accommodation  of  the 
visitors.  Some  of  these  sheds  were  hung  with  black, 
such  as  one  sees  before  churches  in  funerals;  some  were 
robed  in  violet,  in  compliment  to  the  Emperor  whose 
mourning  they  put  on.  Most  of  them  had  fine  tricolour 
hangings  with  appropriate  inscriptions  to  the  glory  of 
the  French  arms. 

All  along  the  Champs  Elysees  were  urns  of  plaster- 
of -Paris  destined  to  contain  funereal  incense  and  flames ; 
columns  decorated  with  huge  flags  of  blue,  red,  and 
white,  embroidered  with  shining  crowns,  eagles,  and  N's 
in    gilt    paper,    and    statues    of    j^laster    representing 


ON  THE  FUNERAL  CEREMONY      495 

Nymphs,  Triumphs,  Victories,  or  other  female  person- 
ages, painted  in  oil  so  as  to  represent  marble.  Real 
marble  could  have  had  no  better  effect,  and  the  appear- 
ance of  the  whole  was  lively  and  picturesque  in  the  ex- 
treme. On  each  pillar  was  a  buckler  of  the  colour  of 
bronze,  bearing  the  name  and  date  of  a  battle  in  gilt 
letters:  j^ou  had  to  walk  through  a  mile-long  avenue 
of  these  glorious  reminiscences,  telling  of  spots  where, 
in  the  great  imperial  days,  throats  had  been  victoriously 
cut. 

As  we  passed  down  the  avenue,  several  troops  of 
soldiers  met  us:  the  garde-miinicipale  a  cJieval,  in  brass 
helmets  and  shining  jack-boots,  noble-looking  men, 
large,  on  large  horses,  the  pick  of  the  old  army,  as  I 
have  heard,  and  armed  for  the  special  occupation  of 
peace-keeping:  not  the  most  glorious,  but  the  best  part 
of  the  soldier's  duty,  as  I  fancy.  Then  came  a  regiment 
of  Carabineers,  one  of  Infantry — little,  alert,  brown- 
faced,  good-humoured  men,  their  band  at  their  head 
playing  sounding  marches.  These  were  followed  by  a 
regiment  or  detachment  of  the  Municipals  on  foot — 
two  or  three  inches  taller  than  the  men  of  the  Line,  and 
conspicuous  for  their  neatness  and  discipline.  By-and- 
by  came  a  squadron  or  so  of  dragoons  of  the  National 
Guards:  they  are  covered  with  straps,  buckles,  aiguil- 
lettes,  and  cartouche-boxes,  and  made  under  their  tri- 
colour cock's-plumes  a  show  sufficiently  warlike.  The 
point  which  chiefly  struck  me  on  beholding  these  mili- 
tary men  of  the  National  Guard  and  the  Line,  was  the 
admirable  manner  in  which  they  bore  a  cold  that  seemed 
to  me  as  sharp  as  the  weather  in  the  Russian  retreat, 
through  which  cold  the  troops  were  trotting  without 
trembling  and  in  the  utmost  cheerfulness  and  good- 


496    SECOND  FUNERAL  OF  NAPOLEON 

humour.  An  aide-de-camp  galloped  past  in  white  pan- 
taloons.   By  heavens !  it  made  me  shudder  to  look  at  him. 

With  this  profound  reflection,  we  turned  away  to  the 
right  towards  the  hanging-bridge  (where  we  met  a  de- 
tachment of  young  men  of  the  Ecole  de  I'Etat  Major, 
fine-looking  lads,  but  sadly  disfigured  by  the  wearing 
of  stays  or  belts,  that  make  the  waists  of  the  French 
dandies  of  a  most  absurd  tenuity) ,  and  speedily  passed 
into  the  avenue  of  statues  leading  up  to  the  Invalides. 
All  these  were  statues  of  warriors  from  Ney  to  Char- 
lemagne, modelled  in  clay  for  the  nonce,  and  placed 
here  to  meet  the  corpse  of  the  greatest  warrior  of  all. 
Passing  these,  we  had  to  walk  to  a  little  door  at  the 
back  of  the  Invalides,  where  was  a  crowd  of  persons 
plunged  in  the  deepest  mourning,  and  pushing  for 
places  in  the  chapel  within. 

The  chapel  is  spacious  and  of  no  great  architectural 
pretensions,  but  was  on  this  occasion  gorgeously  deco- 
rated in  honour  of  the  great  person  to  whose  body  it  was 
about  to  give  shelter. 

We  had  arrived  at  nine:  the  ceremony  was  not  to 
begin,  they  said,  till  two:  we  had  five  hours  before  us 
to  see  all  that  from  our  places  could  be  seen. 

We  saw  the  roof,  up  to  the  first  lines  of  architecture, 
was  hung  with  violet ;  beyond  this  with  black.  We  saw 
N's,  eagles,  bees,  laurel  wreaths,  and  other  such  imj)erial 
emblems,  adorning  every  nook  and  corner  of  the  edifice. 
Between  the  arches,  on  each  side  of  the  aisle,  were 
painted  trophies,  on  which  were  written  the  names  of 
some  of  Napoleon's  Generals  and  of  their  principal 
deeds  of  arms — and  not  their  deeds  of  arms  alone,  pardi, 
but  their  coats  of  arms  too.  O  stars  and  garters!  but 
this   is   too   much.     What   was   Ney's   paternal   coat. 


ON  THE  FUNERAL  CEREMONY      497 

prithee,  or  honest  Junot's  quarterings,  or  the  venerable 
escutcheon  of  King  Joachim's  father,  the  innkeeper? 

You  and  I,  dear  Miss  Smith,  know  the  exact  value  of 
heraldic  bearings.  We  know  that  though  the  greatest 
pleasure  of  all  is  to  act  like  a  gentleman,  it  is  a  pleasure, 
nay  a  merit,  to  be  one — to  come  of  an  old  stock,  to  have 
an  honourable  pedigree,  to  be  able  to  say  that  centuries 
back  our  fathers  had  gentle  blood,  and  to  us  transmitted 
the  same.  There  is  a  good  in  gentility:  the  man  who 
questions  it  is  envious,  or  a  coarse  dullard  not  able  to 
perceive  the  difference  between  high  breeding  and  low. 
One  has  in  the  same  way  heard  a  man  brag  that  he  did 
not  know  the  difference  between  wines,  not  he— give 
him  a  good  glass  of  port  and  he  would  pitch  all  your 
claret  to  the  deuce.  My  love,  men  often  brag  about  their 
own  dulness  in  this  way. 

In  the  matter  of  gentlemen,  democrats  cry,  "Psha! 
Give  us  one  of  Nature's  gentlemen,  and  hang  your  aris- 
tocrats." And  so  indeed  Nature  does  make  some  gen- 
tlemen—a few  here  and  there.  But  Art  makes  most. 
Good  birth,  that  is,  good  handsome  well-formed  fathers 
and  mothers,  nice  cleanly  nursery-maids,  good  meals, 
good  physicians,  good  education,  few  cares,  pleasant 
easy  habits  of  life,  and  luxuries  not  too  great  or  ener- 
vating, but  only  refining — a  course  of  these  going  on 
for  a  few  generations  are  the  best  gentleman-makers 
in  the  world,  and  beat  Nature  hollow. 

If,  respected  ^ladam,  you  say  that  there  is  something 
better  than  gentility  in  this  wicked  world,  and  that  hon- 
esty and  personal  worth  are  more  valuable  than  all  the 
politeness  and  high-breeding  that  ever  wore  red-heeled 
pumps,  knights'  spurs,  or  Iloby's  boots,  Titmarsh  for 
one  is  never  going  to  say  you  nay.    If  you  even  go  so 


498    SECOND  FUNERAL  OF  NAPOLEON 

far  as  to  say  that  the  very  existence  of  this  super- 
genteel  society  among  us,  from  the  slavish  respect  that 
we  pay  to  it,  from  the  dastardly  manner  in  which  we 
attempt  to  imitate  its  airs  and  ape  its  vices,  goes  far  to 
destroy  honesty  of  intercourse,  to  make  us  meanly 
ashamed  of  our  natural  affections  and  honest,  harmless 
usages,  and  so  does  a  great  deal  more  harm  than  it  is 
possible  it  can  do  good  by  its  example — perhaps.  Mad- 
am, you  speak  with  some  sort  of  reason.  Potato 
myself,  I  can't  help  seeing  that  the  tulip  yonder  has 
the  best  place  in  the  garden,  and  the  most  sunshine, 
and  the  most  water,  and  the  best  tending— and  not  lik- 
ing him  over  well.  But  I  can't  help  acknowledging 
that  Nature  has  given  him  a  much  finer  dress  than  ever 
I  can  hope  to  have,  and  of  this,  at  least,  must  give  him 
the  benefit. 

Or  say,  we  are  so  many  cocks  and  hens,  my  dear  (sans 
arriere  jjensec) ,  with  our  crops  pretty  full,  our  plumes 
pretty  sleek,  decent  picking  here  and  there  in  the  straw- 
yard,  and  tolerable  snug  roosting  in  the  barn:  yonder 
on  the  terrace,  in  the  sun,  walks  Peacock,  stretching  his 
proud  neck,  squealing  every  now  and  then  in  the  most 
pert  fashionable  voice  and  flaunting  his  great  supercil- 
ious dandified  tail.  Don't  let  us  be  too  angry,  my  dear, 
with  the  useless,  haughty,  insolent  creature,  because  he 
despises  us.  Something  is  there  about  Peacock  that  we 
don't  possess.  Strain  j^our  neck  ever  so,  you  can't 
make  it  as  long  or  as  blue  as  his — cock  your  tail  as  much 
as  you  please,  and  it  will  never  be  half  so  fine  to  look  at. 
But  the  most  absurd,  disgusting,  contemptible  sight  in 
the  world  would  you  and  I  be,  leaving  the  barn-door 
for  my  lady's  flower-garden,  forsaking  our  natural 
sturdy  walk  for  the  peacock's  genteel  rickety  stride,  and 


ON  THE  FUNERAL  CEREMONY      499 

adopting  the  squeak  of  his  voice  in  the  place  of  our  gal- 
lant lusty  cock-a-doodle-dooing. 

Do  you  take  the  allegory?  I  love  to  speak  in  such, 
and  the  above  types  have  been  presented  to  my  mind 
while  sitting  opposite  a  gimcrack  coat-of-arms  and  cor- 
onet that  are  painted  in  the  Invalides  Church,  and  as- 
signed to  one  of  the  Emperor's  Generals. 

Ventrehleu!  Madam,  what  need  have  they  of  coats- 
of-arms  and  coronets,  and  wretched  imitations  of  old  ex- 
ploded aristocratic  gewgaws  that  they  had  flung  out  of 
the  country— with  the  heads  of  the  owners  in  them  some- 
times, for  indeed  they  were  not  particular— a  score  of 
years  before?  What  business,  forsooth,  had  they  to  be 
meddling  with  gentility  and  aping  its  ways,  who  had 
courage,  merit,  daring,  genius  sometimes,  and  a  pride 
of  their  own  to  support,  if  proud  they  were  inclined  to 
be?  A  clever  young  man  (who  was  not  of  high  family 
himself,  but  had  been  bred  up  genteelly  at  Eton  and  the 
university)  —young  Mr.  George  Canning,  at  the  com- 
mencement of  the  French  Revolution,  sneered  at  "  Ro- 
land the  Just,  with  ribbons  in  his  shoes,"  and  the  dandies, 
who  then  wore  buckles,  voted  the  sarcasm  monstrous 
killing.  It  was  a  joke,  my  dear,  worthy  of  a  lackey, 
or  of  a  silly  smart  parvenu,  not  knowing  the  society 
into  which  his  luck  had  cast  him  ( God  help  him !  in  later 
years,  they  taught  him  what  they  were!),  and  fancying 
in  his  silly  intoxication  that  simplicity  was  ludicrous 
and  fashion  respectable.  See,  now,  fifty  years  are  gone, 
and  where  are  shoebuckles?  Extinct,  defunct,  kicked 
into  the  irrevocable  past  off  the  toes  of  all  Europe! 

How  fatal  to  the  parvenu,  throughout  history,  has 
been  this  respect  for  shoebuckles.  Where,  for  instance, 
would  the  Empire  of  Napoleon  have  been,  if  Ney  and 


500    SECOND  FUNERAL  OF  NAPOLEON 

Lannes  had  never  sported  such  a  thing  as  a  coat-of- 
arms,  and  had  only  written  their  simple  names  on  their 
shields,  after  the  fashion  of  Desaix's  scutcheon  yonder? 
—the  bold  Republican  who  led  the  crowning  charge  at 
I^Iarengo,  and  sent  the  best  blood  of  the  Holy  Roman 
Empire  to  the  right-about,  before  the  wretched  misbe- 
gotten imperial  heraldry  was  born,  that  was  to  prove 
so  disastrous  to  the  father  of  it.    It  has  always  been  so. 
They  won't  amalgamate.    A  country  must  be  governed 
by  the  one  principle  or  the  other.    But  give,  in  a  repub- 
lic, an  aristocracy  ever  so  little  chance,  and  it  works  and 
plots  and  sneaks  and  bullies  and  sneers  itself  into  place, 
and  you  find  democracy  out  of  doors.     Is  it  good  that 
the  aristocracy  should  so  triumph?— that  is  a  question 
that  you  may  settle  according  to  your  own  notions  and 
taste ;  and  permit  me  to  say,  I  do  not  care  twopence  how 
you  settle  it.    Large  books  have  been  written  upon  the 
subject  in  a  variety  of  languages,  and  coming  to  a 
variety  of  conclusions.     Great  statesmen  are  there  in 
our  country,  from  Lord  Londonderry  down  to  Mr.  Vin- 
cent, each  in  his  degree  maintaining  his  different  opin- 
ion.    But  here,  in  the  matter  of  Napoleon,  is  a  simple 
fact:  he  founded  a  great,  glorious,  strong,  potent  re- 
public, able  to  cope  with  the  best  aristocracies  in  the 
world,  and  perhaps  to  beat  them  all;  he  converts  his 
republic  into  a  monarchy,  and  surrounds  his  monarchy 
with  what  he   calls   aristocratic   institutions;   and  you 
know  what  becomes  of  him.    The  people  estranged,  the 
aristocracy  faithless    (when  did  they  ever  pardon  one 
who    was    not    of    themselves?) —the    imperial    fabric 
tumbles  to  the  ground.     If  it  teaches  nothing  else,  my 
dear,  it  teaches  one  a  great  point  of  poHcy— namely,  to 
stick  by  one's  party. 


ON  THE  FUNERAL  CEREMONY      501 

While  these  thoughts  (and  sundry  others  relative  to 
the  horrible  cold  of  the  place,  the  intense  dulness  of  de- 
lay, the  stupidity  of  leaving  a  warm  bed  and  a  break- 
fast in  order  to  witness  a  procession  that  is  much  better 
performed  at  a  theatre)  — while  these  thoughts  were 
passing  in  the  mind,  the  church  began  to  fill  apace,  and 
you  saw  that  the  hour  of  the  ceremony  was  drawing 
near. 

Imprimis,  came  men  with  lighted  staves,  and  set  fire 
to  at  least  ten  thousand  wax-candles  that  were  hanging 
in  brilliant  chandeliers  in  various  parts  of  the  chapel. 
Curtains  were  dropped  over  the  upper  windows  as  these 
illuminations  were  effected,  and  the  church  was  left  only 
to  the  funereal  light  of  the  spermaceti.  To  the  right 
was  the  dome,  round  the  cavity  of  which  sparkling 
lamps  were  set,  that  designed  the  shape  of  it  brilliantly 
against  the  darkness.  In  the  midst,  and  where  the  altar 
used  to  stand,  rose  the  catafalque.  And  why  not  ?  Who 
is  God  here  but  Napoleon?  and  in  him  the  sceptics  have 
already  ceased  to  beheve ;  but  the  people  does  still  some- 
what. He  and  Louis  XIV.  divide  the  worship  of  the 
place  between  them. 

As  for  the  catafalque,  the  best  that  I  can  say  for  it  is 
that  it  is  really  a  noble  and  imposing-looking  edifice,  with 
tall  pillars  supporting  a  grand  dome,  with  innumerable 
escutcheons,  standards,  and  allusions  military  and  fu- 
nereal. A  great  eagle  of  course  tops  the  whole :  tripods 
burning  spirits  of  wine  stand  round  this  kind  of  dead 
man's  throne,  and  as  we  saw  it  (by  peering  over  the  heads 
of  our  neighbours  in  the  front  rank),  it  looked,  in  the 
midst  of  the  black  concave,  and  under  the  effect  of  half- 
a-thousand  flashing  cross-lights,  properly  grand  and 
tall.    The  effect  of  the  whole  chapel,  however  (to  speak 


502    SECOND  FUNERAL  OF  NAPOLEON 

the  jargon  of  the  painting-room),  was  spoiled  by  being 
cut  up:  there  were  too  many  objects  for  the  eye  to  rest 
upon:  the  ten  thousand  wax-candles,  for  instance,  in 
their  numberless  twinkling  chandeliers,  the  raw  tran- 
chant  colours  of  the  new  banners,  wreaths,  bees,  N's, 
and  other  emblems  dotting  the  place  all  over,  and  in- 
cessantly puzzling,  or  rather  bothering  the  beholder. 

High  overhead,  in  a  sort  of  mist,  with  the  glare  of 
their  original  colours  worn  down  by  dust  and  time,  hung 
long  rows  of  dim  ghostly-looking  standards,  captured 
in  old  days  from  the  enemy.  They  were,  I  thought,  the 
best  and  most  solemn  part  of  the  show. 

To  suppose  that  the  people  were  bound  to  be  solemn 
during  the  ceremony  is  to  exact  from  them  something 
quite  needless  and  unnatural.  The  very  fact  of  a 
squeeze  dissipates  all  solemnity.  One  great  crowd  is 
always,  as  I  imagine,  pretty  much  like  another.  In  the 
course  of  the  last  few  years  I  have  seen  three:  that  at- 
tending the  coronation  of  our  present  sovereign,  that 
which  went  to  see  Courvoisier  hanged,  and  this  which 
witnessed  the  Napoleon  ceremony.  The  people  so  as- 
sembled for  hours  together  are  jocular  rather  than  sol- 
emn, seeking  to  pass  away  the  weary  time  Avith  the  best 
amusements  that  will  offer.  There  was,  to  be  sure,  in 
all  the  scenes  above  alluded  to,  just  one  moment — one 
particular  moment— when  the  universal  people  feels  a 
shock  and  is  for  that  second  serious. 

But  except  for  that  second  of  time,  I  declare  I  saw 
no  seriousness  here  beyond  that  of  ennui.  The  church 
began  to  fill  with  personages  of  all  ranks  and  condi- 
tions. First,  opposite  our  seats  came  a  company  of  fat 
grenadiers  of  the  National  Guard,  who  presently,  at 
the  word  of  command,  put  their  muskets  down  against 


ON  THE  FUNERAL  CEREMONY      503 

benches  and  wainscots,  until  the  arrival  of  the  procession. 
For  seven  hours  these  men  formed  the  object  of  the 
most  anxious  solicitude  of  all  the  ladies  and  gentlemen 
seated  on  our  benches:  they  began  to  stamp  their  feet, 
for  the  cold  was  atrocious,  and  we  were  frozen  where  we 
sat.  Some  of  them  fell  to  blowing  their  fingers;  one 
executed  a  kind  of  dance,  such  as  one  sees  often  here  in 
cold  weather — the  individual  jumps  repeatedly  upon 
one  leg,  and  kicks  out  the  other  violently,  meanwhile 
his  hands  are  flapping  across  his  chest.  Some  fellows 
opened  their  cartouche-boxes,  and  from  them  drew  eat- 
ables of  various  kinds.  You  can't  think  how  anxious  we 
were  to  know  the  qualities  of  the  same.  "  Tiens,  ce  gros 
qui  mange  une  cuisse  de  volaille!"  —  "II  a  du  jambon, 
celui-la."  "  I  should  like  some,  too,"  growls  an  Eng- 
lishman, "  for  I  hadn't  a  morsel  of  breakfast,"  and  so 
on.  This  is  the  way,  my  dear,  that  we  see  Napoleon 
buried. 

Did  you  ever  see  a  chicken  escape  from  clown  in  a 
pantomime,  and  hop  over  into  the  pit,  or  amongst  the 
fiddlers?  and  have  you  not  seen  the  shrieks  of  enthusi- 
astic laughter  that  the  wondrous  incident  occasions? 
We  had  our  chicken,  of  course :  there  never  was  a  public 
crowd  without  one.  A  poor  unhappy  woman  in  a 
greasy  plaid  cloak,  with  a  battered  rose-coloured  plush 
bonnet,  was  seen  taking  her  place  among  the  stalls  al- 
lotted to  the  grandees.  "  Voyez  done  I'Anglaise,"  said 
everybody,  and  it  was  too  true.  You  could  swear  that 
the  wretch  was  an  Englishwoman:  a  bonnet  was  never 
made  or  worn  so  in  any  other  country.  Half-an-hour's 
delightful  amusement  did  this  lady  give  us  all.  She 
was  whisked  from  seat  to  seat  by  the  huissiers,  and  at 
every  change  of  place  woke  a  peal  of  laughter.    I  was 


504    SECOND  FUNERAL  OF  NAPOLEON 

glad,  however,  at  the  end  of  the  day  to  see  the  old  pink 
bonnet  over  a  very  comfortable  seat,  which  somebody 
had  not  claimed  and  she  had  kept. 

Are  not  these  remarkable  incidents?  The  next  won- 
der we  saw  was  the  arrival  of  a  set  of  tottering  old  In- 
valids, who  took  their  places  under  us  with  drawn  sabres. 
Then  came  a  superb  drum-major,  a  handsome  smiling 
good-humoured  giant  of  a  man,  his  breeches  astonish- 
ingly embroidered  with  silver  lace.  Him  a  dozen  little 
drummer-boys  followed— "the  little  darlings!"  all  the 
ladies  cried  out  in  a  breath:  they  were  indeed  pretty 
little  fellows,  and  came  and  stood  close  under  us:  the 
huge  drum-major  smiled  over  his  little  red-capped 
flock,  and  for  many  hours  in  the  most  perfect  content- 
ment twiddled  his  moustaches  and  played  with  the  tas- 
sels of  his  cane. 

Now  the  company  began  to  arrive  thicker  and  thicker. 
A  whole  covey  of  Conseillers-d'Etat  came  in,  in  blue 
coats,  embroidered  with  blue  silk,  then  came  a  crowd 
of  lawyers  in  toques  and  caps,  among  whom  were  sun- 
dry venerable  Judges  in  scarlet,  j^urple  velvet,  and  er- 
mine—a kind  of  Bajazet  costume.  Look  there!  there 
is  the  Turkish  Ambassador  in  his  red  cap,  turning  his 
solemn  brown  face  about  and  looking  preternaturally 
wise.  The  Deputies  walk  in  in  a  body.  Guizot  is  not 
there:  he  passed  by  just  now  in  full  ministerial  costume. 
Presently  little  Thiers  saunters  back:  what  a  clear, 
broad,  sharp-eyed  face  the  fellow  has,  with  his  grey 
hair  cut  down  so  demure!  A  servant  passes,  pushing 
through  the  crowd  a  shabby  wheel-chair.  It  has  just 
brought  old  Monkey  the  Governor  of  the  Invalids,  the 
honest  old  man  who  defended  Paris  so  stoutly  in  1814. 
He  has  been  very  ill,  and  is  worn  down  almost  by  in- 


ON  THE  FUNERAL  CEREMONY      505 

iirmities:  but  in  his  illness  he  was  perpetually  asking, 
"Doctor,  shall  I  live  till  the  15th?  Give  me  till  then, 
and  I  die  contented."  One  can't  help  believing  that  the 
old  man's  wish  is  honest,  however  one  may  doubt  the 
piety  of  another  illustrious  Marshal,  who  once  carried  a 
candle  before  Charles  X.  in  a  procession,  and  has  been 
this  morning  to  Neuilly  to  kneel  and  pray  at  the  foot  of 
Napoleon's  coffin.  He  might  have  said  his  prayers  at 
home,  to  be  sure;  but  don't  let  us  ask  too  much:  that 
kind  of  reserve  is  not  a  Frenchman's  characteristic. 

Bang— bang!  At  about  half -past  two  a  dull  sound 
of  cannonading  was  heard  without  the  church,  and  sig- 
nals took  place  between  the  Commandant  of  the  In- 
valids, of  the  National  Guards,  and  the  big  drum- 
major.  Looking  to  these  troops  (the  fat  Nationals  were 
shuffling  into  line  again)  the  two  Commandants  uttered, 
as  nearly  as  I  could  catch  them,  the  following  words — 

" Harrum  Hump! " 

At  once  all  the  National  bayonets  were  on  the  pre- 
sent, and  the  sabres  of  the  old  Invalids  up.  The  big 
drum-major  looked  round  at  the  children,  who  began 
very  slowly  and  solemnly  on  their  drums,  Rub-dub-dub 
— rub-dub-dub — (count  two  between  each) — rub-dub- 
dub,  and  a  great  procession  of  priests  came  down  from 
the  altar. 

First,  there  was  a  tall  handsome  cross-bearer,  bearing 
a  long  gold  cross,  of  which  the  front  was  turned  towards 
his  grace  the  Archbishop.  Then  came  a  double  row  of 
about  sixteen  incense-boys,  dressed  in  white  surplices: 
the  first  boy,  about  six  years  old,  the  last  with  whiskers 
and  of  the  height  of  a  man.  Then  followed  a  regiment 
of  priests  in  black  tippets  and  Mdiite  gowns:  they  had 
black  hoods,  like  the  moon  when  she  is  at  her  third  quar- 


506    SECOND  FUNERAL  OF  NAPOLEON 

ter,  wherewith  those  who  were  bald  (many  were,  and 
fat  too)  covered  themselves.  All  the  reverend  men  held 
their  heads  meekly  down,  and  affected  to  be  reading  in 
their  breviaries. 

After  the  Priests  came  some  Bishops  of  the  neigh- 
bouring districts,  in  purple,  with  crosses  sparkling  on 
their  episcopal  bosoms. 

Then  came,  after  more  priests,  a  set  of  men  whom  I 
have  never  seen  before— a  kind  of  ghostly  heralds, 
young  and  handsome  men,  some  of  them  in  stiff  tabards 
of  black  and  silver,  their  eyes  to  the  ground,  their  hands 
placed  at  right  angles  with  their  chests. 

Then  came  two  gentlemen  bearing  remarkable  tall 
candlesticks,  with  candles  of  corresponding  size.  One 
was  burning  brightly,  but  the  wind  (that  chartered  lib- 
ertine) had  blown  out  the  other,  which  nevertheless  kept 
its  place  in  the  procession — I  wondered  to  myself 
whether  the  reverend  gentleman  who  carried  the  ex- 
tinguished candle,  felt  disgusted,  humiliated,  mortified 
— perfectly  conscious  that  the  eyes  of  many  thou- 
sands of  people  were  bent  upon  that  bit  of  refrac- 
tory wax.    We  all  of  us  looked  at  it  with  intense  interest. 

Another  cross-bearer,  behind  whom  came  a  gentle- 
man carrying  an  instrument  like  a  bed-room  candle- 
stick. 

His  Grandeur  Monseigneur  Affre,  Archbishop  of 
Paris:  he  was  in  black  and  white,  his  eyes  were  cast  to 
the  earth,  his  hands  were  together  at  right  angles  from 
his  chest:  on  his  hands  were  black  gloves,  and  on  the 
black  gloves  sparkled  the  sacred  episcopal — what  do  I 
say?— archiepiscopal  ring.  On  his  head  was  the  mitre. 
It  is  unlike  the  godly  coronet  that  figures  upon  the 
coach-panels  of  our  own  Right  Reverend  Bench,    The 


ON  THE  FUNERAL  CEREMONY      507 

Archbishop's  mitre  may  be  about  a  yard  high:  formed 
within  probably  of  consecrated  pasteboard,  it  is  without 
covered  by  a  sort  of  watered  silk  of  white  and  silver.  On 
the  two  peaks  at  the  top  of  the  mitre  are  two  very  little 
spangled  tassels,  that  frisk  and  twinkle  about  in  a  very 
agreeable  manner. 

Monseigneur  stood  opposite  to  us  for  some  time, 
when  I  had  the  opportunity  to  note  the  above  remark- 
able phenomena.  He  stood  opposite  me  for  some  time, 
keeping  his  eyes  steadily  on  the  ground,  his  hands  before 
him,  a  small  clerical  train  following  after.  Why  didn't 
they  move?  There  was  the  National  Guard  keeping  on 
presenting  arms,  the  little  drummers  going  on  rub-dub- 
dub— rub-dub-dub— in  the  same  steady,  slow  way,  and 
the  Procession  never  moved  an  inch.  There  was  evi- 
dently, to  use  an  elegant  phrase,  a  hitch  somewhere. 
[Enter  a  fat  priest,  who  bustles  up  to  the  drum-major.] 

Fat  priest—"  Taisez-vous." 

Little  Drwrnm^r— Rub-dub-dub— rub-dub-dub— rub- 
dub-dub,  ^c. 

Drum-major — "  Qu'est-ce  done?" 

Fat  priest — "  Taisez-vous,  vous  dis-je;  ce  n'est  pas  le 
corps.    II  n'arrivera  pas— pour  une  heure." 

The  little  drums  were  instantly  hushed,  the  proces- 
sion turned  to  the  right  about,  and  walked  back  to  the 
altar  again,  the  blown-out  candle  that  had  been  on  the 
near  side  of  us  before  was  now  on  the  off  side,  the  Na- 
tional Guards  set  down  their  muskets  and  began  at  their 
sandwiches  again.  We  had  to  wait  an  hour  and  a  half 
at  least  before  the  great  procession  arrived.  The  guns 
without  went  on  booming  all  the  while  at  intervals,  and 
as  we  heard  each,  the  audience  gave  a  kind  of  "^  ahahah! " 
such  as  you  hear  when  the  rockets  go  up  at  Vauxhall. 


508    SECOND  FUXERAL  OF  NAPOLEON 

At  last  the  real  Procession  came. 

Then  the  drums  began  to  beat  as  formerly,  the  Na- 
tionals to  get  under  arms,  the  clergymen  were  sent  for 
and  went,  and  presently — yes,  there  was  the  tall  cross- 
bearer  at  the  head  of  the  procession,  and  they  came  back! 

They  chanted  something  in  a  weak,  snuffling,  lugu- 
brious manner,  to  the  melancholy  bray  of  a  serpent. 

Crash !  however,  IMr.  Habeneck  and  the  fiddlers  in  the 
organ-loft  pealed  out  a  wild  shrill  march,  which  stopped 
the  reverend  gentlemen,  and  in  the  midst  of  this  music — 

And  of  a  great  trampling  of  feet  and  clattering. 

And  of  a  great  crowd  of  Generals  and  Officers  in  fine 
clothes. 

With  the  Prince  de  Joinville  marching  quickly  at  the 
head  of  the  procession. 

And  while  everybody's  heart  was  thumping  as  hard 
as  possible. 

Napoleon's  corriN  passed. 

It  was  done  in  an  instant.  A  box  covered  with 
a  great  red  cross — a  dingy-looking  crown  lying  on  the 
top  of  it — Seamen  on  one  side  and  Invalids  on  the 
other — they  had  passed  in  an  instant  and  were  up  the 
aisle. 

A  faint  snuffling  sound,  as  before,  was  heard  from  the 
officiating  priests,  but  we  knew  of  nothing  more.  It  is 
said  that  old  Louis  Philippe  was  standing  at  the  cata- 
falque, whither  the  Prince  de  Joinville  advanced  and 
said,  "  Sire,  I  bring  you  the  body  of  the  Emperor  Na- 
poleon." 

Louis  Philippe  answered,  "  I  receive  it  in  the  name 
of  France."  Bertrand  put  on  the  body  the  most  glorious 
victorious  sword  that  ever  has  been  forged  since  the  apt 
descendants  of  the  first  murderer  learned  how  to  ham- 


ON  THE  FUNERAL  CEREMONY      509 

mer  steel;  and  the  coffin  was  placed  in  the  temple  pre- 
pared for  it. 

The  six  hundred  singers  and  the  fiddlers  now  com- 
menced the  playing  and  singing  of  a  piece  of  music; 
and  a  part  of  the  crew  of  the  "  Belle  Poule  "  skipped 
into  the  places  that  had  been  kept  for  them  under  us, 
and  listened  to  the  music,  chewing  tobacco.  While  the 
actors  and  fiddlers  were  going  on,  most  of  the  spirits- 
of-wine  lamps  on  altars  went  out. 

When  we  arrived  in  the  open  air  we  passed  through 
the  court  of  the  Invalides,  where  thousands  of  people 
had  been  assembled,  but  where  the  benches  were  now 
quite  bare.  Then  we  came  on  to  the  terrace  before  the 
place:  the  old  soldiers  were  firing  off  the  great  guns, 
which  made  a  dreadful  stunning  noise,  and  frightened 
some  of  us,  who  did  not  care  to  pass  before  the  cannon 
and  be  knocked  down  even  by  the  wadding.  The  guns 
were  fired  in  honour  of  the  King,  who  was  going  home 
by  a  back  door.  All  the  forty  thousand  people  who 
covered  the  great  stands  before  the  Hotel  had  gone 
away  too.  The  Imperial  Barge  had  been  dragged  up 
the  river,  and  was  lying  lonely  along  the  Quay,  ex- 
amined by  some  few  shivering  people  on  the  shore. 

It  was  five  o'clock  when  we  reached  home:  the  stars 
were  shining  keenly  out  of  the  frosty  sky,  and  Francois 
told  me  that  dinner  was  just  ready. 

In  this  manner,  my  dear  Miss  Smith,  the  great  Na- 
poleon was  buried. 

Farewell. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


PR 

DUl 
1911 


ililiil'i'lMllIii' 


iillll 


